Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part 1: Baby, you're like lightning in a bottle

Belly

It’s mid-January, and the air outside my window is heavy and damp. Inside my room, I’m surrounded by the familiar clutter of home–school books piled on the floor, the scent of a vanilla candle, the soft gray light of my phone screen. It’s the portrait of a perfectly ordinary Saturday afternoon, no different from a hundred others. But my life isn't ordinary anymore.

Conrad’s face fills my screen, and every corner of my mind. He looks so much like the boy I fell in love with, but also completely new. His hair is messy, still slightly wet from a shower, and he’s wearing the worn blue hoodie I stole from him last summer. He smiles slowly, and my stomach does that familiar flip, sharp and dizzying.

“Hey, you,” he says, his voice low and raspy from a full day of classes.

“Hey, yourself.” I lean my cheek against the screen, pretending it’s his shoulder.

The easiness is real now. The distance is still brutal, but the emotional gap that used to exist between us has vanished. We talk about silly things–the terrible cafeteria food, my upcoming history final–but we always spiral back to the only things that matter.

“Did you talk to my mom this morning?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

He nods. “Mom is still holding steady. She insists on going to the housewarming party our neighbour’s wife is throwing next weekend. She wants to prove she’s fine.”

“And you?” I press. This is our code for therapy. He scratches his chin.

“I went. It was good. Nothing explodes in my head anymore, Belly. I just…talk. It helps that I know I can call you the minute I’m done.” He reaches out, his hand coming up to the camera, and I touch my own finger to his on the glass. It’s our own clumsy, digital infinity sign.

The sheer effort it takes him to keep going, to keep doing the hard work of being okay, only makes my love for him feel bigger, more solid. It’s one of the most attractive things about him–this quiet, determined strength.

Just as I’m about to tell him about the ridiculous poem I had to write for English, my phone vibrates and the screen shrinks to a small window. Taylor. She is calling aggressively.

“Hang on, Taylor is blowing up my phone.” I roll my eyes, and Conrad just gives me a gentle nod, before reaching for one of his text books. I switch over, feeling the familiar, jarring lurch of moving from my real life to my old life.

“Hello?”

“BELLY! Spill! It's been two weeks, and you have only sent me one cryptic text message about the Christmas boy drama! Is it serious?” Taylor’s voice is loud and frantic, full of high-school urgency.

I close my eyes. How do I translate the fact that Conrad and I are bound by the impending loss of his mother, the secret of him going to therapy, and the most intimate night of my life, into something Taylor can understand? She wants gossip; I have existential dread mixed with perfect love.

“Okay, firstly, it’s not my fault that you decided to join Lucinda on her epic road trip to Cancun and completely blew off the first two weeks of classes meaning we haven’t actually gotten a chance to catch up,” I can hear her rolling her eyes over the phone, “and secondly…yes, Taylor. It is serious. We’re good.”

“‘We’re good’? That’s it? Did you guys finally, you know…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Commit?”

I flinch away from the phone. The language is wrong, the implication is shallow. She can’t know that we made a promise to always love each other while lying naked in front of a fire. She can’t know that the infinity symbol he traced on my skin means more to me than any ring.

The truth feels too big for words, too sacred for a quick phone chat. It’s all still forming, a delicate, gorgeous thing I don’t know how to translate for the outside world, and the pressure of trying makes my chest tight.

I tell her that my mom’s calling me and hang up quickly. When I switch back, Conrad is holding his own phone in one hand, staring at a text message. His face has gone rigid, losing the soft ease it had just moments ago.

“What is it?” I ask, my heart tightening immediately.

He shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. “Dad just texted. Mom has a new, pretty aggressive round of tests scheduled for the first week of February. They want to know if the current treatments are even still working. It sounds... serious.”

He looks at me, and his vulnerability is devastating. “I’m scared, Belly. I don’t know what we’re going to do if they say no.”

“We’ll figure it out. Together.” My voice is shaky, but I need to be strong for him.

“I have to go. I need to call Dad back, and I have this stupid transcript request for Stanford that I forgot about.” He rubs the bridge of his nose.

The word Stanford slams into me, amplifying my fear. It's not just February, and Susannah’s tests; it's also September, and the whole country between us.

“I love you,” he says, his eyes pleading for me to understand why he has to go.

“I love you too.”

The screen goes dark. I’m left alone in my cluttered room, the sound of the ticking clock overwhelming. The love we share is the most certain thing in the universe, but the crisis is looming, and the new distance we have to face is suddenly terrifying. February is coming, and I know it will change everything.

–

Conrad calls again two days later, and the conversation is all logistics. He confirms he's taking a couple of days off Brown after the tests–he needs to be there, not just for the results, but just to breathe the same air as Susannah.

"I miss you, Belly," he says at the end of the call, his voice tired but tender. "I can't wait to see you at Prom."

Prom. Two whole months away. It feels like a lifetime. Two months of him carrying this weight alone, two months of me being helpless, two months of waiting to find out if the treatments are failing. I can't do it. I need to be there for him right now.

A plan starts to form, small and reckless, like a snowflake catching fire. I know Mom is already thinking about going to Boston to support Susannah through that round of testing. She always goes when the news is potentially bad.

I find her in the kitchen, sorting through a pile of mail. I approach her carefully, keeping my voice gentle.

“Mom, are you thinking about going to Boston when Susannah has her tests?” I ask.

She pauses, sighing. “I should. She needs me, and I need to know what’s going on. I was planning on driving up the week after next.”

“I want to come with you,” I say, plunging ahead before I lose my nerve.

She raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too knowing. “Oh, do you? You have school, Belly, and Conrad is going to be focused on his mother, not playing hooky with his girlfriend.”

I step closer, making sure she sees my seriousness, not just my teenage desire. “I know. But he’s falling apart, Mom. And if the news is bad, he can’t be alone. You know how he gets when he tries to shoulder everything. And you need support, too. I can help you with Susannah, and I can just be there. I won't get in the way. I just need to be close.”

I keep my voice steady, but my eyes must give away the truth–the gravity of the "always" I now share with her godson. I am asking her to facilitate this part of my life, the part that is no longer a crush, but a commitment.

She stares at me for a long time, sorting through my words, knowing that this is about more than just a quick visit. She sees the young woman I am becoming–the one who doesn't run from the hard truths.

“Okay, Bean,” she says softly, tucking the mail under her arm. “You can come. But you are there for Susannah and for me. And Conrad doesn't know. You keep it a surprise.”

Conrad, February

The house is too quiet. The tests are over, for now.

I sit here on the edge of the kitchen counter, drinking lukewarm coffee that tastes like defeat. Mom is asleep, completely wiped out after the aggressive rounds of scans and blood draws. She was a wreck leading up to it, nauseous and scared, but she put on a brave face right until she didn’t have to anymore. She got through it. She always does. But every time, the recovery is harder, the darkness lingers longer.

I haven’t heard anything definitive from the doctors yet, but the way they huddle and the quietness of their voices is enough to tell me things are shifting. The truth is just sitting there, waiting for someone to put a name to it.

I rub my eyes, feeling the exhaustion deep in my bones. Being back at Brown feels like a flimsy mask I put on every day. My real life is here in Boston; in the cold, quiet anticipation of bad news.

God, I miss Belly.

I miss the easy silence we had at Cousins, the way she just knew when to touch me and when to leave me alone. Every instinct I have right now is to call her, to hear her voice and forget about blood counts and treatment options. But I can’t. I know she’s got her own worries, her own life, and I can’t drop this crushing weight on her over the phone. I have to wait until I know exactly what the news is. That is what I promised her–that I wouldn't push her away, but that I would share the facts when I had them.

I hear the front door latch click. That’ll be Laurel.

A selfish, immediate wave of relief washes over me. I love Laurel, of course, but it’s more than that. Laurel is Belly's mom. Having her here feels like having a small, tangible piece of Belly. It feels like the closest thing I can get to being held by Belly right now without actually seeing her.

Laurel’s here for Mom, and in a way, she’s here for me too, simply by association. I don’t have to talk about Belly, but just watching Laurel move through the kitchen, with the same easy, capable energy Belly has, is enough. It’s a strange comfort; a temporary proxy for the real thing.

"Hey, Laurel," I say, sliding off the counter. I need to get her bags and tell her that Mom is finally resting.

"How are you holding up, Conrad?" she asks, her eyes scanning me with the deep, perceptive wisdom only a mother has.

"We made it through the tests," I tell her. That’s the victory. The results are the war.

I wish Belly was walking in behind her. I wish I could just bury my head in her shoulder and let her tell me it will be okay.

Laurel gives me a knowing look, then leans down to adjust her small duffel bag by the entryway. "Listen, there’s just one more bag. It's too bulky and I left it on the porch. Can you help me grab it?"

I frown as I open the door. "One more? How long are you planning to stay this time, Laurel?"

The cold Boston air rushes in. I see the dark silhouette of a small duffel bag by the railing, but right next to it, tucked into the shadow of the doorframe, is something else entirely.

Belly.

She’s wearing a thick knit cap and my old scarf. The edges of her cheeks are pink from the cold, and she is beaming; her eyes bright and filled with a love that hits me harder than any fear.

I can't speak. My jaw drops. The questions–What are you doing here? How long?–are erased by the sheer, overwhelming relief of seeing her. She's here. She's real.

She takes one hesitant step toward me. "Hi,"

I don't let her finish the thought. I close the door behind me with a loud thud, dropping my hands onto her shoulders, and pull her into a crushing, desperate hug. She squeezes back instantly, her cold face pressing into my neck. I breathe her in–vanilla and cold winter air–and the frantic beating of my heart finally slows.

"I missed you," I mumble into her scarf, the words muffled and thick with emotion. "God, I missed you."

"I know," she whispers. "I couldn't wait for Prom."

I pull back just enough to look at her, my hands still gripping her tightly. Laurel is standing quietly in the background, smiling slightly.

"You did this," I accuse Laurel, but my voice is warm with gratitude.

Laurel shrugs. "Someone had to save this boy from his own anxiety. Now, you two go catch up. I have a mother to check on."

Belly and I are left standing in the hallway. She reaches up, her hand finding the skin beneath my jaw, and pulls my face down. We kiss–a long, deep, life-affirming kiss that wipes away the memory of hospital smell and coded conversations.

This is all I needed. This is the only victory that matters right now.

"I love you," I say, quiet and absolute.

"I love you, too," she replies.

We don't need to talk about the tests. We don't need to talk about Mom, or school, or the distance. Right now, the only thing we need to do is to exist in the same space.

I grab her hand and pull her toward the living room, where the house is quieter, warmer. "Come on," I breathe. "I need to prove to you that this place is less depressing when you are in it."

Once we’re inside, she sheds her cap and scarf and throws herself onto the long, worn sofa. I join her instantly, the cushions moulding around us.

I tuck my face into the warmth of her neck, my arms encircling her tightly. We lie there for a long time, savouring the quiet comfort of our familiar shapes fitting together. She is my anchor. The physical presence of her body is the only thing that has made sense since I woke up this morning.

"I was so scared I'd have to go through the next few days alone," I confess, the words muffled against her hair.

She reaches back, her fingers finding the skin just above my wrist, where the pulse is still frantic. "You don't have to be alone anymore. Not for this. Not for anything."

We stay like that, clinging to the immediate comfort, postponing the inevitable weight of the results. For five minutes, ten minutes, maybe more, we are just two people on a sofa, and the biggest thing we have to worry about is how many classes Belly is missing.

But we both know we can’t avoid it forever.

She pulls back slightly, looking up at me, her expression turning serious. "The tests? Are they... do we know anything?"

"Not yet," I confirm, sighing and tracing the line of her collarbone. "They finished the aggressive rounds this morning. Mom got through it fine, just exhausted. The doctors said they should have the initial reports from the lab by tomorrow morning. The official consultation is scheduled for noon."

The anxiety returns, not a crushing wave like before, but a slow, heavy pulse beneath the surface of the joy. We have this perfect reunion, but the ticking clock to noon is running.

"So we just wait," she says quietly.

"We just wait," I agree. "But now we wait together."

She settles back against me, and I feel her fingers tracing the faint outline of the infinity necklace resting against her chest. I pull her closer, tucking my cheek against her soft hair. 

We are two people on a sofa, preparing for war, but right now, we are armed with love.

Belly

I wake up slowly, enveloped in the quiet of the Boston house, but mostly enveloped in Conrad. We are still tangled on the sofa, the thick blanket my mom must have draped over us now pushed down to our hips. The cold morning light is just starting to filter through the windows.

I turn my head and find his jaw, covered in a light morning shadow. He looks peaceful; the lines of anxiety that were etched around his eyes yesterday are softened by sleep. I run my fingers lightly along his collarbone, the memory of his thumb tracing infinity on my shoulder flashing through me.

He stirs and his eyes open, instantly clear. He doesn't need a minute to remember where he is or why we are here. The first look he gives me is heavy with the knowledge of what today holds.

"Morning," he whispers, his voice thick.

"Good morning."

We stay quiet for a minute, clinging to the last moments before the world intrudes. The air in the house feels thin, charged with anticipation. Noon.

I sit up, kissing his forehead. "I should go check on our moms."

He gets up too, instantly alert. "I'll come with you."

We move through the house on silent feet, a shared, nervous energy crackling between us. We find Mom in the kitchen, already making coffee, her face tired but prepared. She offers us a thin, genuine smile.

"She's awake," Mom tells us, nodding toward Susannah's bedroom. "She needs tea, but she doesn't want any more of those awful hospital muffins."

I feel a sudden, urgent need to see her, to anchor the fear in the reality of her familiar, beautiful face. I mix a cup of Earl Grey, setting it carefully on a small tray.

I walk into Susannah’s room alone. She is sitting up against a pile of pillows, wearing a pale blue cashmere sweater. Her hair is thinner now, but her eyes are still pure coastal blue, full of an exhausting, stubborn hope.

"Belly!" Her voice is weak, but her smile is the real thing. "You shouldn't have skipped school for this."

"I had to," I say simply, setting the tea down. I sit on the edge of her bed and take her hand. It is fragile and cool. "I couldn't let you go through this alone."

"You didn't. I have Laurel, and Conrad," she murmurs.

"And you have me," I insist. I just hold her hand, squeezing it softly. I don't talk about the tests. I don't ask about the pain. I just tell her about Prom, making up ridiculous details about the dress and the decorations, watching her eyes twinkle with the simple joy of normalcy. I know I’m reminding her that there is still a future, still a reason to fight.

I stay until Conrad knocks gently on the doorframe. We exchange a look over Susannah’s head–a silent acknowledgment that time is running out.

"I love you, Susannah," I say, kissing her cheek.

"I love you, darling girl," she replies.

-

Conrad and I retreat to the living room. The clock on the mantle shows eleven-thirty. Thirty minutes. We sit side-by-side on the sofa, clutching mugs of cold coffee, the silence now heavy and impossible to fill. Every single minute feels like an hour.

I reach out and find Conrad's hand, lacing my fingers through his. We don't speak. We just wait for the phone to ring, knowing that the next voice we hear will determine the entire course of our always.

At five minutes to noon, Susannah emerges from her room, looking frail but determined. Mom is right behind her.

"I’m taking the call in here," Susannah announces, directing Mom to the small desk in the living room where the landline rests. "I want to be able to sit. And I want Conrad to listen."

She looks at me, her blue eyes soft. "Belly, darling, would you mind? I haven't eaten anything substantial since yesterday, and Laurel is no help in the kitchen."

It’s a clear command; a generous dismissal and a necessary distraction.

"I can make that fancy quiche you like," I say, scrambling off the sofa. "And some coffee cake."

The kitchen is bright and warm, but the sounds that carry from the living room are muffled and ominous. I chop onions with manic speed, the rhythmic thump-thump of the knife against the board the only predictable sound in the universe right now.

Noon hits.

The phone rings. It’s sharp, loud, and final.

I freeze, knife mid-air. I hear the low murmur of Susannah’s voice, then Mom’s deeper, steady tone, and then Conrad’s voice, which is almost swallowed entirely by the walls. They aren't talking loud enough for me to hear words, which is worse than shouting. It means the news is serious enough to demand quiet reverence.

I pour the egg mixture into the crust, my hands trembling slightly. I try to focus on the steam rising from the coffee cake I just pulled out of the oven. I count the seconds. I picture Conrad's face, trying to predict the outcome based on the way his jaw was set this morning.

Twenty minutes pass. Nothing.

Forty-five minutes pass. Still the low, persistent hum of discussion. My legs ache from standing.

I finish the quiche and set the table, polishing the silverware needlessly. I am a woman possessed by domesticity, unable to do anything but wait. The fear is a tight, cold knot right under my ribs.

The hour creeps to sixty-two minutes. I'm staring at the quiche, which is cooling on the rack, when the door to the kitchen swings open.

It’s Conrad.

He looks utterly demolished. His hair is messy, his clothes are rumpled, and his eyes are slightly red, like he hasn't slept in days. I drop the serving spoon onto the counter with a clatter. My heart stops.

"Conrad," I gasp. "What is it?"

He doesn't speak right away. He just stands there, leaning against the doorframe, sucking in a huge, shuddering breath. I brace myself for the worst, the kitchen suddenly spinning.

Then, the exhausted seriousness on his face gives way to the widest, most blindingly relieved smile I have ever seen. It’s a smile that reaches his eyes and melts away weeks of tension.

"Belly," he chokes out, his voice hoarse. "They said it's... they said it's working."

I stare at him, the words making no sense. "What’s working?"

"The chemo," he says, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward me. He grabs my hands, pulling them away from the counter and holding them tightly. "The oncologist was... she said the markers are down. Significantly. It’s working. The new combination is working."

I feel a massive, physical pressure lift from my chest. I don't laugh; I sob. Tears flood my eyes, mixing with sudden, uncontrollable laughter that sounds hysterical and pure.

"She's okay?" I repeat, needing the physical confirmation.

"She is fighting, and she is responding," he corrects me, his eyes glowing with unshed tears. "We get more time, Belly. We get more time."

He pulls me into him, crushing me against his chest, and I feel the massive, sudden release of his own tension. We stand there in the middle of the warm kitchen, surrounded by the smell of cooling quiche and hope, swaying slightly.

He pulls back, his smile wobbly. "They said this is the best news they have had since she relapsed. She’s on the right path, Belly. The actual war is still being fought, but we just won the first, biggest battle."

"We won," I echo. I reach up and tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth down to mine for a kiss that tastes like salt and relief.

"Mom is crying and laughing at the same time," he mumbles against my lips. "Laurel is hugging her. You have to come see."

We don't bother setting the quiche on the table. We walk hand-in-hand back into the living room. Susannah is slumped against my mom, both of them crying softly, but their tears are joyful.

This is our family. This is our always. And today, for the first time in a very long time, it feels like the fight might actually be winnable.

Chapter Text

Conrad

February has turned into March, and the fear that has gripped me for so long has finally started to recede. Mom is continuing to respond to the treatment. She’s tired, yes, but her colour is better, her appetite is back, and the oncologist is using words like "significant reduction" and, eventually, "partial remission." It’s the most profound wave of relief I have ever felt. The weight of the world has lifted, not just from me, but from all of us.

The impending results no longer haunt my dreams, which means I can finally focus on the other promise I made to Belly: Prom. 

I want her to have the perfect, uncomplicated night; a moment of pure, normal high-school joy that she deserves after carrying so much adult weight. I’ve been planning this for weeks. I secured a hotel room for the night after a terrifying conversation with Laurel about safe sex that made me want to climb under my dorm room bed and never come out. But it was worth it.

The biggest miracle, though, is Mom. She’s feeling so well that she insisted on flying down with me for the weekend. She’s currently in the other room with Laurel, laughing, acting like her old self, while we all wait for Belly and Taylor to get ready upstairs. It’s surreal, watching the two of them together, and it’s the best gift she could have ever given me.

I’m currently trapped in the brightly lit living room with Steven, who is absolutely kicking my ass at Mortal Kombat. He executes a flawless uppercut, and my character splatters across the pixelated floor. I don't flinch, my thumb twitching uselessly on the controller's cold plastic. Every muscle in my body is tuned, not to the FINISH HIM echoing from the speakers, but to the excited, muffled giggles floating down the stairs from Belly’s room.

I need to get up there now, I think, momentarily letting go of the controller to stretch my neck, the muscles tight with anticipation. I’m halfway to standing when Taylor coughs loudly from the stairway. She’s dressed in some kind of shimmery blue outfit. She looks great.

Steven puts down his controller immediately, walking over to her and kissing the back of her hand. "Damn, Baby. You look amazing."

Taylor preens a little, enjoying the attention, and then Laurel and Mom step out of the hallway, their eyes shining with pride. Mom looks healthy, radiant even.

Taylor catches my eye, a mischievous smirk curving her mouth. "Okay, Fisher. You ready to have your very own Freddie Prinze Jr. moment?"

I stand up slowly, pushing the coffee table back with my knee. My heart is pounding in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. I feel like I’m about to give a presentation to the whole universe. I walk to the foot of the stairs and wait, careful not to crush Belly’s corsage with my trembling hands.

"Belly Conklin, get your cute butt down here!" Taylor yells, the noise bouncing off the walls. "Alexa, play Kiss Me by Sixpence None the Richer!"

The cheesy, nostalgic guitar riff swells through the house. Steven and Taylor are laughing, Laurel is stifling a gasp of pure maternal sentimentality, and Mom is just beaming at the stairwell.

But I don't hear the music. I don't hear the snickers or Laurel's gasps. I don't hear anything at all.

I only see Belly.

She’s at the top of the stairs, standing in the golden light filtering in from the landing window, and the air leaves my lungs completely.

Her dress is a revelation that hits me like a shockwave. It’s a soft lavender–the exact colour of Cousins Beach at twilight, and it makes her skin luminescent. The top part has a curved, sweetheart neckline, and the straps that hold it up are made of delicate, three-dimensional flowers–tiny, sculpted lilac and white fabric petals that seem to bloom right off of the thin material. The fabric cascades down her body, light and airy, and a smattering of those same, fragile blossoms are scattered across the skirt, catching the light like scattered dewdrops.

Her hair is dark and thick, pulled back neatly, showing the small, sparkly studs in her ears, and the dip of her collarbone. She’s wearing her infinity necklace, and a tiny, shy smile that is all mine. She is breathtakingly beautiful, but it’s more than that. The dress is pure, soft romance, but her eyes are the eyes of the girl who held me through the darkest weeks of my life.

I start walking toward the stairs, one foot in front of the other, forgetting everything but her. I’m staring at the girl who is my always, and I know this moment–this perfect, hopeful, beautiful moment–is something I will keep forever.

Belly

The music is still playing–some cheesy, 90s slow-dance song that Taylor insisted Alexa play–but I don't hear it. I only see Conrad.

I’m standing at the top of the stairs, feeling the ridiculous amount of tulle in my skirt, and his face is all I can focus on. He’s wearing a black tuxedo, the jacket sharp and tailored across his shoulders, the crisp white shirt a stark contrast to his tan. His hair is tousled perfectly, catching the light just so, and his eyes are wide, soft, and completely locked on mine. They’re the exact colour of the sea at Cousins Beach just before dawn, the secrets of the ocean swirling inside them. He looks exactly like the main character of a Bond movie, but he is real, and he is mine.

He starts walking toward the stairs, taking them slowly, and I feel my lips pull into a full, unstoppable smile. He stops one step below me, so his eyes are level with mine. He doesn't say anything. He just reaches out and cups my cheek, his thumb wiping away the tiny bit of nervous shimmer that escaped Taylorl's meticulous eye.

"Wow, Belly," he finally breathes, his voice rough. "You’re breathtaking."

I shiver under his touch. His compliment isn't about the dress; it is about the us of it all. It’s about the fact that we made it to this moment, together, despite the doctors and the distance and the anxiety that nearly broke us.

"You clean up okay yourself, Fisher," I manage to tease, my voice barely a whisper.

Suddenly, Taylor's camera flashes brightly. "Okay, that's enough dramatic staring! We need photos! Laurel, Susannah, get over here!"

The perfect moment shatters, replaced by the flurry of family and flashbulbs. Mom and Susannah rush over, both crying a little, their faces so close together they look like sisters again.

"Oh, my beautiful girl," Susannah says, her voice full of relief and pride. She looks radiant, healthy–a miracle that still takes my breath away. "Look at you, Conrad. Take care of her."

Conrad looks at me and says, "Always." It isn't a promise to his mother; it’s a secret, deeply personal vow to me.

–

We’re on the dance floor, and everything is exactly as corny and perfect as I always imagined. The gym is draped in cheap white tulle and twinkling fairy lights, trying desperately to look like an enchanted garden, but it still smells faintly of stale pizza and floor polish. The DJ is playing the most aggressively upbeat, cheesy pop songs from the early 2010s, and I don't care.

I am laughing so hard my cheeks hurt. Conrad is pulling me through a terrible line dance, his jacket is already slightly rumpled, and he is smiling that real, easy smile–the one that reaches his eyes and melts away all the stress of the last few months. His happiness is mine, multiplied by infinity. With the good news about Susannah, it feels like we’re finally allowed to just be us again: two teenagers at a dance, not two allies in a crisis.

We take a break for water, and I feel his hand rest protectively on the small of my back as we weave through the crowd. Taylor finds us, sweaty and breathless.

"Isn't this amazing?" she yells over the music. "I told you! Perfect!"

I nod, catching Conrad's eye. He pulls me closer, my floral straps brushing his tuxedo lapel, and in his gaze, I see a silent understanding: This is amazing because we're here, and we're okay.

The song changes then, slowing down to a melodic, slightly too-dramatic ballad. Conrad doesn't hesitate.

“Belly, would you dance with me?” He says, extending a hand.

I smile and place my hand in his, and he pulls me into the middle of the crowded dance floor, wrapping his arms around my waist. I rest my head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar, clean scent of him–soap and cold air and something uniquely Conrad.

We sway for a long time, the familiar comfort of his body pressed against mine telling me everything I need to know. His closeness is a steady, solid truth.

He nuzzles his cheek against my hair. "I love you."

"I love you too," I whisper back. “I’m so happy you’re here with me.”

The conversation comes quietly, almost swallowed by the music and the surrounding couples.

"Listen," he says, his voice low and serious, "being in Boston this winter–the tests, the waiting–it made me think. Really think. About Mom, and just how precious and temporary everything is." He pauses, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye. "Stanford is a great school, and it has an insane medical program, but it's not the only one in the country."

My heart starts pounding a quick, hopeful rhythm. This is the conversation I was dreading, but the tone isn't one of inevitable separation.

"I decided to expand my applications," he continues. "I already sent the applications to Harvard and Johns Hopkins."

My breath catches. Harvard. That’s right near Susannah; near us. It means no coast-to-coast separation.

"Conrad! Harvard would be great!" I exclaim, my voice full of sudden, giddy relief. "You can stay close to your mom! And Johns Hopkins... wait..."

I look at him, my brow furrowing as the location of the second school registers. I’m trying to retrieve the random college geography facts Steven drilled into me last year.

"Johns Hopkins... where is that again?" I ask, my heart starting to race with a crazy, electric hope I don't dare trust.

He’s smiling now, a small, triumphant, knowing smile that shows he has already calculated the distance. He knows exactly what I’m thinking.

"Johns Hopkins is in Baltimore," he says softly.

"Baltimore," I repeat, my mind racing. Baltimore is a city I have actually driven through. "Baltimore is... wait... Baltimore is less than two hours away from Philly."

He leans in, nodding slowly, his eyes full of confirmation. "Only a one hour and forty-eight minute drive."

The world stops. The music vanishes. The distance–the brutal, terrifying distance that has haunted us since Christmas–collapses into a manageable drive. One hour and forty-eight minutes. That’s nothing. That’s a weekend. That’s not a whole country.

Tears well up in my eyes, not of sadness, but of overwhelming, perfect hope. He's doing this for me. He's choosing us.

"Conrad," I breathe.

He doesn't let me say anything else. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me–a deep, certain kiss that seals the promise of a future that feels suddenly real and close. It’s the best kiss of the night, maybe the best kiss of my life, right there under the cheesy gym lights.

Chapter Text

Conrad

The hotel room itself is nothing–just a standard double with heavy, cream-coloured curtains and a vague smell of industrial carpet cleaner. But as I look over at Belly, already barefoot on the patterned carpet, I realise there's no place I’d rather be.

I close the door behind us, the click of the lock sounding loud and final. We’re alone. The noise of the prom is miles away, the stress of the winter is weeks behind us, and the future feels suddenly close enough to touch.

Belly stands in the middle of the room, looking devastating in her lavender gown. The petals on the straps of her dress are slightly crushed from dancing, and her cheeks are flushed pink from the heat of the gym. She catches my eye in the mirror and smiles–not the shy smile from the top of the stairs, but the one that says we made it.

"I still can’t believe you didn't tell me about Johns Hopkins," she says, her voice soft, still echoing the surprise and relief from the dance floor.

"I couldn't," I admit, walking toward her. I reach out and touch the intricate floral shoulder strap of her dress. The tulle feels like silk. "If I told you before, and then the results about Mom were bad, it would have felt like a manipulation. I needed to know she was going to be okay first. I needed to make the choice from a place of hope, not obligation."

I pull the pins from her hair, one by one, watching the thick waves tumble down her back.

"And is it hope?" she asks, turning to face me, her eyes large and honest. "Baltimore isn’t Stanford, Conrad. Are you sure?"

I put my hands on her waist, holding her close against the expanse of her beautiful, ridiculous dress. The choice is no choice at all. "I couldn't do a whole country, Belly. Not now. Not when everything is finally settling. A one-hour-and-forty-eight-minute drive? That’s an afternoon. Stanford is a lifetime. We already wasted enough time being scared."

She runs her hands up and down the front of my jacket, and I feel the final, crushing weight of the past few months slide away.

"I don't want to take the dress off," she confesses, gazing down at the layered skirt. "It feels like magic."

"Tonight was magic," I agree. "But it wasn’t because of the dress, Belly. It’s you."

A soft flush immediately rises across her cheeks and neck, and my chest tightens with the sight of it; she’s never been more beautiful. I reach up and cup her face in my hands. "Can I show you?" I whisper. She bites her lip and gives a shaky nod. I slowly, deliberately, turn her around.

I pull on the heavy zipper of her dress with fingers I refuse to let tremble. As the zipper slides down, the dress eases open, and I start to undress her. My mouth traces the fabric’s retreat, claiming her skin as it is revealed–a soft, reverent kiss against her spine, her shoulder blade, the pale curve of her waist. She’s still facing away from me, and I plant my free hand on her hip, anchoring her. I take my other hand and brush her hair to the side, raining soft kisses up and down her neck, to her shoulder, chasing the sweet scent of her perfume.

She shudders lightly, tilting her head back against my shoulder, giving me more access. The dress falls silently to the floor, leaving her in simple, strapless red lingerie that’s a sharp intoxicating contrast against the creamy canvas of her body. She’s still facing away from me, the delicate line of her shoulder and back exposed. I trail a finger down her spine, then gently place my hands on her waist and slowly turn her to face me, taking my time to admire her in the fiery red. I let my eyes drink her in for a long moment. 

“Pure magic.” I murmur.

With another slow pull, I turn her again until her back is flush against my chest, fitting her curves perfectly against my front. My thumb slides up her neck to the delicate silver chain resting against her collarbone. I trace the cool, familiar loop of the infinity necklace, the metal a precise contrast to the heat radiating off her skin, right at the base of her throat. It feels less like jewelry and more like a tether, a permanent, quiet promise. It brands her completely as mine. Mine.

That thought shatters the last of my restraint. My hands are no longer gentle; they are everywhere. One slips up her side, immediately finding her breast, kneading it urgently while my thumb finds and tweaks her nipple through the thin silk. I turn my head, capturing her mouth in a hot, open-mouthed kiss that swallows her sharp intake of breath.

My other hand slides down her stomach, across her hip, and cups the heat between her legs. Belly lets out a desperate, muffled whine against my lips.

I pull my mouth from hers, my lips instantly finding her earlobe, tugging it softly. With my hand still kneading the silk-covered curve of her breast, my finger presses against the slick, saturated lace. I find the seam of the thin fabric, pushing slowly, until I slip one finger inside, immediately finding a depth of wetness that steals my breath. I begin to plunge softly into her heat.

"God, Belly," I groan, my voice rough against her ear. "You are so fucking wet."

Her hips arch slightly against my hand. "It's all for you," she breathes back, the words vibrating against my ear. "The whole night, it's all been for you."

The admission–that she has been dripping with this intense want all night for me–hits me with the force of a physical blow. That’s the switch. That’s the thing that propels me past control.

I spin her around, capturing her mouth in a searing, consuming kiss that demands everything she has to give. My hands immediately find the delicate clasp of her bra, and I work the hooks, feeling the small snap of silk and lace as it comes undone. The lace joins the dress on the floor. I walk her back slowly toward the edge of the bed.

When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she falls onto the bed, leaning back on her elbows, watching me. I’m still fully dressed in my tuxedo.

I shed my jacket, then work at the knot of my bowtie, pulling it loose. The entire time, her eyes never leave mine–they are heavy, dark, and utterly consuming; silently daring me to continue; daring me to stop. I unbutton my cuffs, then the long line of white buttons down the front of my shirt, drawing out the process in agonizing, deliberate seconds. With every inch of my chest exposed, her gaze intensifies; a silent, hot appraisal. But the moment my fingers touch the cold silver clasp of my belt buckle, she jolts forward, her hands slamming down over mine, stopping me.

"I wanna do it," she says, her eyes dark with a primal, focused desire that makes my breath catch.

She takes over. Her fingers are quick and precise, unbuckling the leather, unbuttoning the trousers, and pulling the zipper down. The heat radiating from her hands is almost unbearable. I feel my cock get harder and harder, not just from the friction of her touch, but because of the raw, consuming look in her eyes. This is about ownership; about pure, animalistic desire.

She finally undoes the last button and slides my trousers and boxer briefs down to my ankles, making my cock spring free, straining upward.

Belly wastes no time. Her hand immediately closes around the base of me, testing the heavy weight and heat before she grips me with certainty. Then, her jaw drops, her mouth–soft and hot–closing around the head of me. The suction is immediate and deep, and a sharp involuntary groan rips from my chest.

Her rhythm is hesitant at first, then deepens, becoming practiced and insistent. Pure sensation explodes through me, instantly stealing the strength from my legs. I brace my free hand hard against her shoulder, tilting my head back as my entire focus tunnels into the hot, wet velvet of her mouth. Her tongue works the sensitive tip, and the pressure of her hand guides me deeper, faster. Every muscle in my body is clenched, focused entirely on my desperate need for her.

I feel the intense, brilliant pressure building–the immediate, terrifying rush of my impending orgasm. I stop it from washing over me with a desperate groan, grabbing her shoulders and gently but firmly pulling her back.

"Stop, Belly," I gasp, forcing the words out. My breath is ragged. "Please, let me taste you. I need to taste you."

She is panting, her eyes heavy-lidded and confused, but she registers the intensity in my voice. She nods, pushing her damp hair from her forehead, and leans back on her elbows on the bed again.

I take a ragged breath, the transition from being worshipped to becoming the worshipper an act of sheer will. I pull her small lace panties down slowly, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses along her inner thighs and her knees as I take them off and toss them onto the pile of discarded clothes.

I kneel before the bed, parting her legs gently, taking a second to stare at her. She is slick and swollen and impossibly beautiful against the white hotel linen. She is mine. She is perfect.

"My perfect girl," I whisper, a vow and a prayer all at once.

Then I lower my head. The first touch of my tongue is a shock–hot, tart, and immediately intoxicating. She lets out a low, desperate sound, her hips arching off the mattress in response. I trace her delicate folds, lapping and sucking with sudden, ravenous need. I want to devour her, to drown in the intimate taste of her desire. My hands slide under her hips, lifting her, tilting her so I can take her deeper, my mouth working with focused, grateful urgency until her breath hitches and she shouts my name. I keep my mouth firmly latched to her until the waves of her orgasm subside.

Belly is still shivering, her body tight with the aftershocks of release, but I don't stop. I raise my head just enough to plant kisses along her inner thighs, my thumbs rubbing slow, mesmerizing infinity circles over the soft skin of her hips, marking her as mine, claiming her in the silence.

She reaches down, grabbing handfuls of my hair, pulling my face back up to look at her. Her eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and wide with a look of pure, concentrated want that strips away every doubt, every past fear.

"Conrad," she says, her voice a desperate plea. "I need you. Please."

The urgency in her eyes is all the permission and propulsion I need. I pull myself up, rising above her. I reach blindly with one hand toward the floor, fumbling through the pocket of my discarded tuxedo pants, keeping my eyes locked on hers, not wanting to miss a single flicker of this intensity. I find the foil square, tear it open with a tremor of anticipation, and quickly, efficiently, put on the condom.

Then I climb up, settling between her legs, pressing the tip of myself against her heat. The mattress sinks beneath my weight.

I pause one last time. I run my thumb across her lips, memorising the shape of her gasp, and then slide the same thumb down her throat, settling it on the cool, small silver curve of the infinity necklace. Always.

And then I enter her.

The feeling is a slow, unstoppable flood. I feel the initial resistance, the soft, hot welcome of her body yielding to mine, and then the complete, encompassing pressure as I sink fully into her heat. It’s a feeling so profound, so intensely right. It feels like coming home.

I start moving–a slow, deep stroke, then another. She is unbelievably tight, and every inch of me is greeted by a wave of intense, slick heat. The friction is immediate and raw. I watch her face, watching her dark eyes roll back in her head, her jaw clench, and the soft, desperate sounds start pouring from her throat.

I begin to quicken the pace, pushing deeper, faster, matching the rising tide in her body. I hear her breath hitch–that small, sweet sound that tells me everything. Her body tightens around mine in an involuntary, incredible spasm. She’s convulsing, contracting against me, still fresh from the last one, and she’s already hurtling toward her second orgasm.

The feel of her constricting around me; the intense, milking pressure as she comes undone again, nearly pushes me over the edge–a sudden, blinding rush of sensation that makes me want to let go and shout her name. But I don't. I force myself to slow, grinding to a halt, resting my forehead against hers, pulling my body back from the brink. I want to prolong this. I want her pleasure to eclipse everything.

I love you. I love you. I love you. The words are a mantra in my head, a silent vow I am making with every slow, deliberate thrust. I have said two words, and now I need the third. I need to give her one more, just to complete the phrase.

I pull back slightly, my breath heavy and ragged, my eyes searching hers.

"Belly," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. "Do you trust me?"

Belly

His question hits me like a cold wave, cutting through the heavy, sensual haze.

Of course, I trust him. I have trusted him with my biggest fears, with my heart, with the choice of our entire future. But this is different. He's asking me to trust him with my body, right now, in this state of breathless, vulnerable need.

I have no idea what he has planned. He's so intense, his eyes dark and utterly consuming, but I know that wherever he wants to take me, I will follow. I will always follow him.

"Always," I say, the word a steady anchor in the storm of sensation he has created.

His eyes both darken and soften at my response–a beautiful, complicated mix of primal satisfaction and deep, reverent love. I feel him grow impossibly harder and bigger inside of me, and then, slowly, agonizingly, he pulls out.

My body lets out a disappointed whimper before he reaches for a pillow, quickly moving me to lift my hips. He shoves the pillow underneath my back, tilting my hips upward, making me feel exposed and impossibly ready.

"I just want one more, Belly," he says, his voice rough with need and focus. "Give me one more," he says as he moves back toward my entrance.

One... more? Oh my god, he wants me to come one more time. I don't think it's possible. My body is a humming, exhausted tangle of nerves, but I will give this boy anything he asks for.

He enters me again, and the angle is entirely different. It’s deep, powerful, and suddenly, my mind goes blank. The pillow tilts me just so, and with each thrust, he is hitting a deep, sweet spot–a core of pure, explosive pleasure that I never knew existed. It isn't the soft, surface sensation of a moment ago; this is a deep, building pressure that resonates through my stomach and chest.

I gasp, arching my back, my fingers digging into the sheets. I can see Conrad concentrating, his jaw clenched, his hair falling over his forehead.

"One more for me, Belly, come on," he grunts, his gaze locked on mine, pulling me along with him.

I feel it building. It’s so intense, so close, that I want to cry. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

"You're doing so good. You're taking me so well," Conrad is muttering in between powerful, driving thrusts. "That's it."

His words–his approval, his need for me–unlock something deep inside me.

"Conrad, I think I'm close," I gasp, desperate for release.

He mutters a quiet, triumphant "good girl" under his breath, then brings a thumb down to where we’re joined, rubbing me lightly, perfectly, in rhythm with his deep strokes. "Let me feel you. Give me one more, baby."

"Together," I manage to say.

He nods, his expression fierce and determined. His pace–the thrusting and the rubbing–picks up, becoming a dizzying, unstoppable cadence. The pressure is delicious, unbearable, blinding. 

I feel myself shattering–not gently, but violently, beautifully. My muscles contract against him, pulling him in, and I feel him groan that low, guttural sound of pure, helpless release. We are crashing, crying out, clinging to each other as our two bodies convulse together, completely intertwined in the darkness.

Chapter Text

Belly

The weeks after prom are a beautiful, agonising blur; a sudden jarring shift from high-stakes emotional intensity to the dull, aching grind of distance. May is upon us now, blooming in the cold air. Conrad is pushing through his final exams and transfer applications, tackling the rigorous, terrifying requirements of Harvard and Johns Hopkins. I’m buried in my own final exams, trying to maintain my grades to secure my spot on the volleyball team next year, all while simultaneously mapping out a life that suddenly feels not just possible, but within reach–a life where he is a permanent and constant fixture.

We have our regular video calls, of course. They’re a comforting, yet insufficient, ritual; Conrad’s face filling my screen, looking tired but determined in his dorm room. Everything feels regular; normal, but we are missing each other. Badly. It’s the kind of ache that only physical presence can soothe. I need to touch him, not just see him through a pixelated window.

I know how much pressure he is under, and I feel this desperate, primal urge to be there for him. I don’t just want to cheer him on from a distance; I want to physically support him. I want to cook him real food, make him tea, and just breathe the same air as him. I want to be his safe harbour while he sails into this academic hurricane.

My finals finish two weeks into his study period, and I make my decision. I sit Mom down to tell her my plan and, to my surprise, she doesn’t protest; though she does quiz me extensively on my exam schedule. The conversation shifts into an awkward but thorough five-minute refresher on being safe and respecting his need for space; a conversation that leaves both of us flushed. She ends the talk by making me promise to call the second I arrive, which, in Laurel-speak, is a major green light.

With my mission approved, I don't hesitate. I drain my entire summer savings–the tiny pile of cash I earned slinging milkshakes and slathering sunscreen at the beach shop–and buy a one-way Amtrak ticket. It’s my grand, self-funded gesture of commitment.

I text him when I board the train, claiming I’m just getting ready for my final English exam, when in reality, I’m sliding into a window seat, my backpack stuffed with snacks and a lukewarm travel mug of coffee. I open my phone again, quickly pulling up the university map and checking the hours for the best nearby takeout place with actual vegetables.

The four-hour ride quickly turns into one whole research fest, and before I know it, the Pennsylvania countryside has blurred into the industrial sprawl of New Jersey, then the dense woodlands of Connecticut. With every mile, the knot of worry I feel loosens, replaced by a dizzying excitement. I’m doing this. I’m closing the distance.

I can almost smell his scent–pine and salt air, even here, surrounded by the dry metallic tang of the train car. I can almost feel the warm weight of his hand on my hip. He’s no longer a tiny face on my screen; he is minutes away.

When the announcement overhead crackles, "Providence Station!" I launch up, grabbing my backpack before the train has fully stopped. The air on the platform is cold and crisp, carrying the distant smell of the sea. I take a deep breath of the unfamiliar city air. Now, I just have one more stop to make before I have to find my way to campus and track down Conrad’s dorm room. I open up Mom's contact and hit dial as I make my way out of the station.

–

Parcel secured, I grab a taxi to the College Green, navigating the brick buildings and blooming cherry trees that signal spring in Rhode Island. I know the name of Conrad’s dorm–Caswell Hall–from his frequent complaints about the ancient heating system. It takes me ten minutes of nervous searching, trying not to look like a confused tourist, before I find the massive stone building. 

I slide inside, trying to blend in with the students rushing past with armfuls of books. His room is on the third floor. I climb the worn wooden stairs, my heart pounding frantically against my ribs, and finally, I stop outside a door labeled 309. I raise my hand to knock.

Conrad

Finals week has been fucking my life over and I’m buried deep in study, trying to fight my way back with flashcards and energy drinks. The campus outside is quiet, but here, in the confines of my dorm room, it’s a high-pressure war zone. The fluorescent light overhead is the only sound, humming faintly over the low, ambient thrum of my noise-cancelling headphones.

My desk is immaculate–neat piles of colour-coded notes, a water bottle, and my laptop. The room is organised, finally reflecting the sharp, brittle order I’ve managed to instill in my head this semester. No more piled-up clothes, no random trash. Therapy is working wonders for more than just my anxiety.

I push my hair back from my forehead, the heavy exhaustion of two weeks of non-stop studying finally hitting me like a wall. I lean back in my chair, catching a glimpse of the shelf above my desk. Tucked among the text books and posters of complex theorems and chemical formulas is a simple, black frame containing a small, faded polaroid: Belly and I at the Halloween party last year. She’s grinning bright and wide, and I’m just looking at her, caught in the act of smiling.

A warmth floods my chest, a fierce, almost painful protectiveness. I am doing this–the transfer applications, the insane study schedule–for the chance to be closer to her, to secure this future. I carry the distance between us with me as a low, constant pressure against my ribs.

Suddenly, a strange tingle runs up my spine. A familiar, almost physical pull–a sensation I haven't felt since... since we were kids at Cousins. I close my eyes, shaking my head slightly to clear the fatigue and the memory. I need to focus. I grab my pen, pulling myself back to the dense text of my textbook.

Knock. Knock. A soft, hesitant rap comes from the hall outside.

I sigh, the sound barely audible over my sudden rush of annoyance. The interruption is a threat to the narrow sliver of concentration I hold. I yank off my headphones and pull open the heavy door.

I see the brick hallway, the worn floorboards, and then my eyes snag.

She is standing there, my girl. Her hair is slightly messy from travel, her cheeks are flushed pink from the stairs, and her eyes are wide and bright. She is holding a ridiculous, floppy bouquet of snacks–a handful of Twix bars and a couple of those obnoxious neon energy drinks I hate to love.

"Belly," I say, the word a choked, disbelieving whisper. I freeze, my hand still gripping the doorknob, unable to move; unable to breathe.

She beams, that pure, summer-sunshine grin that always knocks me off balance. "Surprise!" she says, shoving the snack bouquet toward me.

The shock lasts only a second, maybe less. Then, pure, unadulterated relief–the kind that makes your knees weak–slams into me. My exhaustion vanishes. All the pressure from the looming organic chemistry exam, the fear of failing my mom, the sheer weight of being separated from her–it all bursts.

I don't say anything else. I reach out, dropping the doorknob, and snatch her wrist, yanking her, bouquet and all, across the threshold and into the small room. I slam the door shut behind her, the sound muffled by the thick wood.

My hands go straight to her face, cupping her jaw, holding her steady. I search her eyes, desperate for confirmation that this is real, that she is here, that two months of separation are over.

“What–?” I try to formulate a question but words are failing me.

"I’m just evening the score," she says, her voice low and happy. "You surprised me twice, remember? I had to get you back."

"You are insane," I whisper, then crush my mouth against hers.

It’s a messy, frantic kiss, desperate and hungry. It tastes like the sugary coating of Sour Patch Kids and the cold spring air she carried in with her. I don't care about the snacks still clutched in her hand, or the fact that my mind should be on electron flow. My mind is only on her.

I pull back just to breathe, resting my forehead against hers. "I thought I was going crazy," I confess, my voice rough. "I felt you. I felt you walking up the stairs. What are you doing here?"

She laughs softly, a warm, resonant sound that fills the sterile dorm room. "You know I couldn’t let you study alone. I came to be your distraction, and your support."

I step back, my eyes scanning her face, drinking her in, before I let the real world intrude. Belly is already moving, efficient and focused. She drops her small overnight bag in front of my closet and then moves toward my desk with the snack bouquet. She stops short, seeing the immaculate order of the surface, and dumps the snack bouquet onto my bed instead. She seems to understand that the order I have created is fragile and crucial. She is moving around me, not against me–a perfect show of support.

"Five days," she announces, her eyes shining with certainty. "That's how long I'm here for. I'm your personal cheerleader and study mate until your last final. And then," she steps closer, rising onto her toes, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper against my jaw, "I’m going back to Cousins with you for the summer."

I stare at her, the sheer relief overwhelming the shock. Five whole days. Her. Here. Then the rest of the summer in Cousins, together, with our families. It’s everything I’ve been craving, but the fact that she’s already orchestrated the logistics–the whole seamless transition–hits me.

"You planned the whole thing," I murmur, a deep smile finally spreading across my face. "You got Laurel to bring your stuff?"

"Yep," she confirms with a proud little nod. "She’s driving up next week with Taylor and Steven and they’re bringing all my summer bags. They're already packed. I'm staying. I just need you to finish these exams first." 

I’m stunned at the audacity of her gesture. Then, the reality of the next five days sinks in. Five days, just the two of us, locked away in this room. I’d always hated that Adam used his wealth and influence to pull strings, but right now, I’m considering sending him the most expensive fruit basket for leveraging that power to secure me this single dorm. We are completely, impossibly alone.

Belly must be reading the thought process play out across my face, because she’s smirking as she looks around the room. “Okay. First things first. You need real food. Your face is gray.”

I shrug, suddenly feeling the hunger I had been ignoring. "I can order something, or we can walk to the local place–there's a great deli just off Thayer Street, they make..."

She cuts me off with a shake of her head, "Nope. I got this. I know about the deli. I also know that the pizza place two blocks down has the best late-afternoon special, and that the coffee shop on the corner does a grilled cheese that people say is 'life-changing' on the Brown subreddit." She plants her hands on her hips, her expression pure, triumphant mischief. "I have been trolling the forums. I know this campus better than you do right now. You stay. You review your notes. Leave it to me."

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest, watching her. The sheer level of preparation–the savings I’m sure she drained for the train ticket, the bags packed for the summer, the local restaurant research–it’s monumental. Most people would crash on the bed after that trip. She’s already running strategic supply missions.

She is everything, I think, the realisation hitting me with the force of a physical blow. She doesn't just love me; she studies me, she protects me, and she plans our future with a fierce certainty that I have always lacked. She is the steady, dependable force that will always anchor my chaos.

A huge wave of affection washes over me, so potent it makes my throat tight. "You are incredible, Belly," I say, my voice low and genuine. "Completely incredible."

She winks. "Go look at your flashcards, Fisher. Your personal assistant will be back in twenty minutes with dinner." She grabs her worn wallet, throws me one last dazzling look, and slips out the door, pulling it shut quietly behind her.

I stand there for a moment, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall, before I push off the doorframe. I walk over to my desk, but I don't sit down. Instead, I pick up the little Polaroid of us. The exhaustion is gone, replaced by a jittery energy–a desire to succeed, not just for myself, but for the future she has so painstakingly cleared the path for.

I look at the chemistry textbook, then back at the picture. I know which one is the real source of energy. I put the picture back, feeling my motivation surge.

I can do this.

Belly

I walk around campus slowly, taking in the ivy-covered buildings and the rushing streams of students, feeling like an archaeologist studying a lost world. Conrad’s world. This quiet, serious place, full of high-stakes pressure and ambition. He has inhabited this space, adapted to this life, without me for the better part of a year. The thought makes my chest ache with pride and a fierce, immediate love.

I love that I get to be here, physically anchoring him to something familiar. I am his safe harbour, but he’s also mine.

As I turn a corner past a massive library, I remember the look on his face just minutes ago. The sheer shock when he realised I was real, standing there, followed by that slow, disbelieving smile. Then, the intensity in his eyes when he processed the words: five days, alone. 

It was a flash of pure, uncontrolled desire, and I had felt the exact same heat spreading through me. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and pull him into the kind of kiss that would make him forget organic chemistry entirely. But he’s already halfway through his study period, and I refuse to be the reason he loses his focus. The discipline will be the hard part–for both of us.

I pass a bustling burger place, the warm scent of grilling meat and frying onions hitting me. That's when the idea forms. Discipline needs a carrot, not just a stick.

I return to Caswell Hall, my backpack full of supplies and my mind buzzing with the plan. I slide the key card Conrad gave me and push the heavy door open.

He’s already back at his desk, headphones on, deep in the study zone. His jaw is tight, and the fluorescent light catches the sheen of stress on his forehead. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders.

He must sense me, because he looks over his shoulder, his eyes instantly finding mine. He yanks the headphones off, the cords dangling around his neck. He doesn't say anything. He just crosses the room in three long strides and pulls me into a hard, sudden hug. It’s not a romantic embrace; it’s a refuge. He buries his face in my hair, pulling me tight against his solid frame. But even through the exhaustion radiating off him, the thrum of that other, urgent desire is there, vibrating between us.

I take a quick, sharp breath and pull away, breaking the intensity before it can derail his whole evening. "Okay, soldier," I say, forcing a lighter tone. "I have a plan. I was thinking of a way to make this whole process a little less painful for you."

I drop my backpack on the ground and pull out a bag of cheeseburgers as Conrad walks back to his desk. "It’s a game. For motivation," I explain, reaching for a stack of his flashcards and fanning them out. "I’ll test you on your flashcards. For every five correct answers you give me–straight and perfect–you get one cheeseburger."

Conrad is listening, but his focus isn't entirely on the cards. He’s leaning against the desk, watching me as I talk, his eyes tracing the line of my mouth when I get competitive and animated. A slow, knowing look crosses his face.

"Oh, so it’s like a rewards system, huh?" he murmurs, his voice low and a little rough. 

“Yep!” I exclaim, completely missing the predatory glint in his eye until it’s too late. He pushes off the desk, taking one slow, deliberate step toward me. 

"Hmm. What else do I get?"

I falter a little at his approach, the cheeseburgers suddenly feeling miles away. His face is too close, his eyes too dark. His scent, too intoxicating.

"Just... just the cheeseburgers," I manage, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears.

He ignores the answer, his hand lifting to cradle my jaw. "How many correct answers for a kiss?" His thumb brushes slowly, deliberately across my bottom lip.

"Umm. Ten."

“Hmm.” He muses, "What about for a kiss here?" His thumb slides lower, leaving a hot trail as it brushes softly down my neck, and against the delicate skin just above my collarbone.

"T-twenty." I stutter, a shiver running down my spine. My lungs feel suddenly tight, the air in the room thick and overheated.

"And here?" He leans in, his eyes locked on mine as he slowly ghosts his thumb across the curve of my breast. My nipple instantly pebbles and tightens beneath the thin fabric of my shirt. His eyes darken, absorbing the clear, immediate reaction.

"Forty eight," I gasp out a random number, completely mesmerised by the intensity in his gaze. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, demanding oxygen.

Conrad lowers his head so that his lips are brushing, but not quite touching, my ear. His voice has turned into low, dangerous gravel. "And if I want to kiss you here, Belly?" As he says it, his fingers trace the seam of my jeans, settling with a feather-light, electric touch at the base of the zipper.

I gulp, closing my eyes, unable to form a reply. The desire is a physical weight, suffocating the sterile air between us.

"How many do I need to get correct to taste you, baby?" Conrad presses. I hear the faint, rough hint of smug competitiveness laced through the desire in his voice. He’s playing a game of his own, seeing if I’ll break first.

My eyes fling open and I see the soft smirk on his face. You arrogant, beautiful jerk. A sudden, cold surge of competitive focus cuts through the heat.

"One hundred," I reply, my voice steady now, the small sound ringing with new determination. I meet his gaze without flinching. "And for two hundred, I'll taste you, baby." I draw out my words, the challenge hanging heavy between us.

Conrad swallows hard, the slight tension in his throat visible. The challenge is set. "Okay," he murmurs, a fierce, hungry look in his eyes. "Let's do this."

Chapter Text

Conrad

A fierce, new determination courses through my veins. The study content hasn't changed, but the stakes have. Now, every correct answer is a physical step towards Belly. This isn't about grades; it’s about rewards. I finally have the motivation I actually need.

I turn back to my desk, shoving the tempting flashcards out of sight for a minute. I bury my head in chemical structures, pulling the noise-canceling headphones back over my ears. But the room is too small now with Belly less than ten feet away.

She’s sprawled on my bed, resting on her stomach, her cheek propped on a pillow. She’s pulled out a paperback and her whole posture speaks of casual, non-tempting concentration. She is actively trying to be boring and it isn’t working. The light from the setting sun catches the highlights in her brown hair, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. I feel the magnetic tug of her presence trying to drag my eyes off of my textbook every fifteen seconds. The words on the pages all blur together.

"Conrad," her voice cuts through the headphone static, still muffled but firm. She doesn't have to raise it; I know that tone. "If you can't concentrate while I'm here, I'm gonna go for a walk until you're ready for your test." She doesn't take her eyes off her book as she threatens me.

I wince, "Okay, okay, I'll behave." I tap the desk with my pen, a silent promise to myself.

I spend the next twenty minutes locked down, forcing the facts to stick. The knowledge is soaking in faster than it has all week. I slam the textbook shut, ready to cash in. "I'm ready for the first five."

She sits up immediately, throwing the book aside. She shuffles the flashcards, her competitive smile back in place. I fly through the first five questions, the answers spilling out without hesitation.

"First five. One cheeseburger secured," she declares, dropping the winning cards into a separate pile and throwing a wrapped burger at me, which I catch with one hand. 

"N-next five. Go."

I push through the next batch. The tension isn't academic; it's anticipation. I rattle off the fifth answer in that set.

"Ten correct," she whispers. "Two burgers and..."

I don't wait for her to finish. I push myself up and pull her to her feet. The kiss is quick and firm–chaste, exactly as she intends–but it ignites the low thrum of desire that has been building since I saw her standing in my doorway earlier this afternoon. I reluctantly pull back, the need for air secondary to the need for control.

"Two more sets until my next reward," I manage, my voice husky.

I force myself to study for another half hour. The knowledge sinks in even faster than before; the reward system is working exactly as planned.

"Test three," I announce, pointing at the cards.

She tests me again. Five more correct. My third cheeseburger. The sustenance is necessary, but the next physical target is the only thing that matters.

"Test four. Twenty total," I say, my eyes locking onto her collarbone.

She reads the final set with tinged cheeks. The questions are harder this time, requiring precision, but the thought of her skin under my lips sharpens my focus. I nail the last answer, my voice cutting through the quiet of the room.

Before she can speak, I grab her wrist and pull her close. I turn my head, aiming for the smooth skin above her clavicle. My lips land hot and open-mouthed against her skin. I suck gently, my tongue tracing the delicate ridge of the bone beneath. The warmth of her skin is better than any academic triumph, and I feel the quick, sharp intake of her breath against my ear. I keep my mouth on her.

"O-okay," Belly stutters, her voice a ragged breath, and the sound is intoxicating. Her hands are gripping my shoulders, her fingers digging in slightly. She is affected, deeply, and that realisation alone is a powerful, blinding rush. We both know this is a game of exquisite torture, where the delay only sharpens the eventual reward.

I pull back just enough that the heat of my mouth leaves her collarbone. I stare at the damp, flushed skin, then back at the flashcards. The next reward–forty-eight correct answers to place my mouth on her beautiful breasts–demands at least forty-eight minutes of absolute, brutal focus.

Belly stumbles back onto my bed, and I return to my desk, shoving my chair in with a violent scrape. The textbook is a blur of complex bonds, but the thought of that next touch burns away the fatigue. I tear through the chemical structures, visualising the carbon chains, the memory of her nipple hardening beneath my thumb providing a sure path to every correct structural name.

"I'm ready," I announce, throwing the cards back at her with the confidence of a winner.

She tests me again, chewing her bottom lip nervously between questions. This set is difficult, spanning three different chapters, but the reward is too great. I fly through the answers at lightning speed, adrenaline pushing the knowledge to the surface of my mind.

"That’s forty-eight," I say, my voice low and thick with triumph as I finish the final question. I don't wait for her confirmation. I stand and approach the bed, my eyes fixed on the gray knit of her sweater. The time for flashcards is over.

I tug her out of bed, then reach for the hem of her sweater and slowly, deliberately, pull it up over her flat stomach, her ribs, and then her chest. I pause, looking into her eyes as I draw it off, and her arms lift automatically to allow it. Her shirt follows quickly the same way. The sudden exposure to the cool room air raises goosebumps on her skin.

"So," I murmur, letting the soft fabric fall to the floor. "Those previous rewards I've already won... do I get to cash them in again?"

She doesn't speak, she answers with action. She pulls my head down, and this kiss is frantic, messy, and desperate, the collision of two people who have been holding their breath for a year. I devour her mouth, needing the deep, wet contact; tasting the faint sweetness of the lip gloss she applied before the train ride. I feel myself hardening painfully inside my pants.

I break the kiss just to speak against her bottom lip, sucking the plush skin between my teeth. "That's the first one." I trail my mouth down her jaw, feeling the pounding pulse vibrate beneath her skin, and return to the soft valley of her neck.

"And here." I find the exact spot on her collarbone where I had just kissed her, and I suck hard, the pressure immediate and deep, knowing the mark will be visible. The thought of branding her, putting a private, possessive claim on her skin, makes my cock go impossibly harder. "That's reward number two."

As I'm licking the spot where I had just sucked, drawing the heat back to the surface, my hand reaches around her back. The thin, delicate strap of her bra meets my fingers. I find the clasp and release it with a quiet, metallic click.

The bra falls away from her body. Belly is a gasping, glorious mess of pure desire, her arms covering nothing.

My breath hitches. I stare at the two pale mounds of her breasts, which rise and fall rapidly with her ragged breathing, crowned with small, tight, pink nipples; the final prize. "Reward number th–"

My sentence is violently cut off. She grabs my head with both hands, her fingers tangled in my hair, and yanks it to her breast. A loud, aching moan of my name tears free from her throat as my tongue darts out, circling the tight, sweet peak of her nipple. I immediately suck on it, taking the velvet-soft skin fully into my mouth as my hands find the weight of both breasts, kneading and massaging them.

I give her a light nip with my teeth and a strangled, "Fuck, Conrad," rips from Belly’s throat.

My head snaps up from her breast. It’s the first time that word has ever left her mouth for me when we're intimate, and the sound shatters every remaining shard of my self-control. My chest tightens as the last of my study dissolves into a single, overwhelming need.

I fight to keep my voice steady, but it comes out as a low, desperate sound. "Belly. You've been incredibly patient. And I've been really good at staying focused." My eyes burn into hers. "And if you say no, I swear I will walk out of this room right now, take a freezing cold shower, and we can go back to organic chemistry."

Her chest is heaving, her breath coming in shallow, quick bursts that barely lift her ribs. She is staring at me, her entire focus clinging to every syllable I utter.

"But if you say yes," I continue, my voice dropping until it's just a dark rumble, "and I really hope to God you say yes, I’m going to throw you onto my bed, and I’m going to fuck you."

Belly’s eyes are wide, dark, and almost feral with want. I hold my breath, the silence in the room deafening as I wait for the only answer that matters.

She bites her lip; a slow, agonizing motion, then the words finally drop. "Please fuck me."

This. This is how I die.

I waste no time. I grab the waistband of her jeans and yank them down, the denim snagging briefly before sliding past her knees. I sweep her up and toss her onto the mattress with a soft thump and the squeak of springs. I tear at my clothes in a frantic, tangled rush.

I peel her thin cotton underwear down her legs, the elastic catching on the curve of her calf. I place a soft, reverent kiss onto her shin, then part her legs. The sight of her–the flushed skin, the slight wet sheen, how desperate and ready she is for me–makes my blood roar.

"I promise I’ll answer a hundred questions for you tomorrow," I manage, the promise useless, the words already flying away on a wave of pure lust.

Then I dive in, putting my mouth on her. I lose myself in the dizzying, familiar salt and sweetness of her skin. My tongue darts and swirls, demanding everything. I taste the urgency of the moment, the deep flavour of her desire, and use my hands to anchor her hips against the sheets, controlling the desperate rhythm of her pleasure.

"Please," she stops me abruptly, her hands pressing hard against my hair. "Please, I need you inside."

We are both desperate, frantic with need. I flip her onto her stomach, handing her a pillow. "Scream into this if you need to."

I reach into the drawer of my nightstand, tear open the foil–a necessary beat of reality–and quickly roll on the condom. I look down at Belly, her hips splayed for me, ass up and completely dripping with want; with need. All for me. I run one hand down the smooth curve of her spine, taking my throbbing cock in the other hand and giving it a hard, silent squeeze to demand control. Listen buddy, I say to it, the words a plea in my head, just fucking last longer than two minutes.

I position myself and drive into her from behind in a single motion that steals the air from my lungs. I grab her hips, anchoring myself against the raw impact. Belly lets out a loud, shocking, gasping moan–a raw sound of pleasure–and immediately shoves her face into the pillow to muffle the sound.

I pause, rubbing a thumb across the curve of her back, the skin damp with sweat. "Is this okay, Belly?"

She twists her neck to look at me, her eyes glazed over, unfocused with pleasure. "Yes, fuck. Yes."

That single word spurs me on. I pick up a pace that is relentless and hard, matching the savage energy that has built up. She is screaming–a muffled, vibrating sound into the pillow, then her entire body buckles, contracting in fierce waves against me with an orgasm that seems to shake the whole bed. 

That crushing, sustained feeling of her body contracting around me almost pushes me over the edge. I seize control of her hips, digging my fingers into her soft skin. It hasn't even been two minutes yet, and I refuse to let it end so quickly. The relentless velvet heat of her grips me, demanding everything. I push on, focusing on the dark wood grain of the floor to calm myself down, but she feels too good.

I pull my mouth close to her ear, grunting between each hard thrust. "Fuck baby, you feel incredible. So fucking tight like this." She whimpers in response.

I keep the pace savage, the headboard of the bed knocking softly against the wall. She’s crying out, the sound swallowed by the rush of blood in my ears, and her hands tangle in the sheets, pulling them taut. Then, she lifts her head from the pillow. Her face is flushed, her hair sticking to her cheeks, and her eyes are absolutely demolished by pleasure.

"Please," she begs, the single word ragged and broken.

"Please what, sweetheart?” I breathe out, my muscles straining as I continue to drive into her.

"Please, baby. I need you to come, it's too much. Too good." She is absolutely, completely begging.

Those words–her desperate admission of pleasure, her demand for my release–are my complete undoing. Control vanishes. I pump two, maybe three more times into her, and the pressure I've been fighting for weeks explodes. The world contracts to the blinding, white-hot rush of my orgasm. I feel the final wave hit, my back arching, my guttural groan echoing loudly in the small room.

I collapse on top of her back, the heavy, sweet weight of my exhaustion and satisfaction settling over us both. After a minute, I pull her close, curling my body around hers, spooning her tightly from behind. I let the deep, rhythmic thrum of her heart gently lull me to sleep.

Belly

The high-voltage charge of that first reunion snaps, giving way to something softer, steadier. We end up making love a second time that first night, hours later. The second time is slow, quiet, and tender; a conscious undoing of the frantic energy that had ripped through the room earlier. That first, desperate urgency was necessary to break the dam of distance, but this second time is about remembering what we feel like together–the weight of his arm, the familiar scent of his skin, the rhythm we’ve built.

Now, the intense sexual pressure has lifted. It’s still there; a low, comforting thrum beneath the surface, but it no longer feels like a ticking clock we have to race against. We fall into an easy, simple routine.

-

On Day Two of my visit, Conrad and I have breakfast together in the dorm–lukewarm coffee and some breakfast bagels from the number one rated bakery in Providence. Then he takes me on a quick, private tour of the campus. The brick buildings and manicured green spaces no longer feel like his secret world, but a space we share. He points out the lecture hall where he pulled an all-nighter, the dark library where he hides during exam week, and the spot under a huge oak tree where he sometimes eats lunch. It makes his life here even more real.

After the tour, the schedule kicks in. He locks back into his study schedule while I continue my own gentle exploration, often returning to the dorm room simply to drop off a proper meal–Thai noodles, or a hot Italian sub–anything but campus dining. The next two days blur into a perfect, predictable cycle: study, eat, a few minutes of quiet love-making, and repeat. It feels incredibly easy, a seamless blend of companionship and discipline.

Today is Day Four, the final push. Conrad's last exam before summer.

He is tight with stress this morning; his jaw is clenched even while he sleeps, and he barely touches the oatmeal I make him. I sit quietly on the bed while he reviews his final notes, the air thick with his concentration. I don't interrupt, just exist in the periphery. When it’s finally time for him to leave, I walk him to the corner of the Green.

He stops, turns, and pulls me in for a fast, hard kiss–a gesture of luck and promise all wrapped up together. "Wish me luck," he murmurs against my mouth.

"You don't need it," I whisper back. "You’ve got this."

I don't leave the dorm until he texts me an hour later: Done. I absolutely killed it. A wave of triumphant relief washes over me, so strong it feels like my own victory, making my shoulders drop and my body sigh.

That night, he tells me to dress up. "Something nice," he insists. "We're going out." It's his way of celebrating and his thank you; a dramatic break from the sterile, beige confines of his dorm room.

I pull out the only dress I brought that qualifies: a simple, form-fitting seafoam green dress with spaghetti straps. It's the colour of the ocean and it feels a million miles away from the sweatpants and study clothes of the past four days.

Conrad takes me to a classic, dimly lit seafood restaurant half an hour away. The air is warm and slightly salty, thick with the heavy, comforting scent of melted butter and steamed clams. I order a lobster roll; the massive, pearly white chunks of meat piled high on a toasted, buttery bun, and it tastes like a vacation I haven't officially started yet.

He is lighter than I've seen him all semester. The lines of stress around his eyes have finally softened, and he leans back in the booth, the dark leather creaking softly beneath him, watching me eat with a relaxed, proud smile.

Midway through dinner, after we’ve toasted his "absolute kill" of the exam, he clears his throat. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and slides a small, deep navy velvet pouch across the table, the movement slow and deliberate against the white linen.

"This is..." he hesitates, the vulnerability making his usually guarded expression soft and exposed. "This is for all the food, and for getting me through the last four days."

I open the pouch and pull out a thin silver bracelet. It feels cool and delicate in my palm. Dangling from it is a small charm in the shape of an anchor. I hold it up to the candlelight. Engraved on the crown of the anchor are tiny, precise numbers.

"It’s the latitude and longitude coordinates of the beach house," he murmurs, his eyes locked on the charm as if looking at a map of his own heart. "I got it a few weeks ago, right after I submitted the first transfer application. Just, you know. To remember the real reason I was doing all this."

My throat tightens. The gift isn't just jewellery; it's tangible proof of his intention. It's a constant reminder that no matter where we are, we are fixed on Cousins; where it all began for us. I slide out of the booth and walk around the table. He meets me halfway, standing up and wrapping his arms around me.

"It’s perfect, Conrad," I whisper into the soft, familiar cotton of his shirt.

He kisses me gently, pulling back only to look me in the eyes, his gaze clear and completely free from the recent shadow of stress. "Now, let’s go get ready for summer."

Chapter Text

Conrad

The morning air is bright and quiet, completely devoid of the anxious energy that has clung to this campus for weeks. Belly and I start our final day here with a long, lazy breakfast at a spot just off campus–somewhere with real linen napkins and Eggs Benedict.

I lean back, sipping my coffee. I watch the light stream in through the window, catching the fine dust particles swirling in the air. A thought settles in my chest, heavy with finality and hope: this might be the last time I ever have breakfast here as a student. If the transfer applications land the way I need them to, this whole chapter–the constant low-grade stress, the isolation–it all closes today. I turn my wrist, running a thumb over the leather of my watch. A chance to be closer to her. That’s all this was ever about.

“Are you going to miss it?” Belly’s watching me with a thoughtful smile.

The question is quiet, perfectly placed. I turn, catching the soft curiosity in her eyes–that familiar, unnerving way she sees exactly what's beneath the surface. A slow smile spreads across my face; an honest one, because there's no point in pretending she doesn't know. The only sound is the gentle clink of my spoon against the porcelain of my mug as I set it down.

I hold her gaze, letting the weight of the last year settle and then pass. "No," I finally say, the word feeling light and true. "I think I'm ready for the next adventure."

We return to the dorm and Belly and I pack up the room together. The organised chaos of the last few days is reversed as we box up my books, my laptop, and the now-empty water bottle. She works with a quiet efficiency, humming slightly as she folds my clothes. The ease of our movements, the way she knows exactly where my stuff goes, speaks volumes about the future I want. This isn't just a fun visit; this is a trial run for a shared life.

As we drive north toward Boston where my small collection of things will sit until the fall, my mind drifts. It isn't filled with chemistry theorems anymore, but with logistics: dorm room locations, class schedules, and how many miles will separate us next year. No matter the campus, the constant remains Belly, beside me through it all.

The drive from Boston to Cousins is the fastest three hours on record. By late afternoon, the air outside the car is changing, growing thick and briny. I roll down the windows, and the scent hits me–salt, cedar, and the specific smell of the ocean after a sunny day. Belly immediately leans across the open window, letting her hair stream back; a dark, whipping banner against the green trees. She takes a huge breath, inhaling the familiar air deeply. I can’t help but smile just watching the pure look of joy on her face. I reach over, placing a hand on her back and giving it a light caress. She pulls her head back inside, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright and wind-whipped. She settles back into her seat and immediately finds my hand, lacing her cool fingers through mine. I bring her hand up and press my lips to her knuckles. We made it. 

The house is already alive. As we pull up the winding gravel driveway, Mom's station wagon is parked crookedly by the porch. Jeremiah’s familiar beat-up truck is right behind it. I kill the engine, and the rush of the waves immediately fills the silence.

The front door swings open before we can get out. Jeremiah is the first one out, his smile huge and genuine, and he runs right for Belly, sweeping her into a frantic, bear-like hug.

"Bells! You actually made it!" Jeremiah shouts, lifting her feet clean off the ground. "I thought Connie was going to keep you holed up in his dorm room forever!"

Belly, muffled against his shoulder, laughs. "I wouldn't miss it! Happy summer, Jere!"

Mom follows, her face radiating pure joy, though she moves a little slower than Jeremiah. She embraces me fiercely, smelling like suntan lotion and the familiar sweetness of her perfume.

"Connie," she murmurs, holding me tight, then pulling back to look me over. "You look so much better than you did on that video call. Now, did you actually get any rest, or did Belly just run you ragged?"

Jeremiah lets out a loud, knowing snigger, his eyes bright with mischief, before finally setting Belly down. Mom gives him a scalding look, "With studying, Jeremiah."

He just rolls his eyes and throws an arm around my shoulder, giving me a celebratory shake. "Welcome home, bro! Thanks for finally sharing her with the rest of the family. Now, did you bring the beer, or did you leave that to the professionals?"

"I brought the girl," I reply, nodding toward Belly. "Better than beer."

Before Jere can manage a reply, a sharp wave of light cuts across the porch.

We all squint at the driveway as a set of headlights sweeps up the gravel. Steven, Taylor, and Laurel pile out. Steven immediately comes over to clap my shoulder, and Taylor goes straight for Belly. It’s chaos, noise, and laughter–the specific kind of loud, messy love that only this family creates.

Before anyone can drag a bag onto the porch, Jeremiah and Steven converge on Belly. She screams; a high, helpless sound of laughter and protest, as they lift her off her feet. The first summer "belly flop" is officially in session. Her feet dangle, kicking uselessly, as Steven grabs her under the knees and Jere hooks her back. I sprint to join them. Taylor just stands by the truck, her own arms full of bags, watching the spectacle with an expression of total, bewildered confusion. We carry Belly, one arm under her back, one under her knees, and run full tilt toward the pool, while she’s still shrieking with helpless laughter.

We launch her into the bright, turquoise water with a massive, satisfying splash. The water hits our faces, cold and refreshing. Jeremiah and Steven immediately turn to each other, high-fiving hard, their laughter loud and triumphant. I simply stand on the edge, smiling down at the churning surface, waiting for her. Belly stays underwater for a few long seconds, a dark, motionless shape, before she finally explodes to the surface, sputtering and laughing.

Mom’s standing on the porch now, holding Laurel's hand, her head thrown back in pure, unrestrained laughter. Belly swipes the wet hair from her face, her twinkling eyes immediately finding and fixing on mine.

I empty my pockets–keys, wallet, phone–tossing them onto the nearest sun lounger. I take a deep breath of the salty air. This is it. This is where it all goes right. Every miserable night studying, every mile, every ache of distance–it was all to get back to this specific feeling, in this specific place.

I jump, plunging into the cool water after her.

-

Belly

Stepping out of the pool, I feel the intense, immediate relief of being home. This isn't just a vacation; it's a reset button pressed on the entire year. The sting of the chlorine, the sound of the ocean, and the cool air hitting my soaked skin–these are the visceral sensations that signal the true start of summer.

The biggest change this year is Taylor. My best friend; loud and fiercely loyal Taylor, is actually spending the summer with us. She’s officially here because she and Steven's relationship has gotten serious–seriously serious. I catch them stealing glances and whispering inside jokes, and a wave of pure, uncomplicated happiness washes over me. Watching Taylor smile that soft, private smile she only saves for Steven feels like a gift. She belongs here, nestled right into the chaos of our two families. Everything feels incredibly right. My world is complete: my whole family is under this roof.

Life settles into the easy, sandy rhythm that only Cousins can offer. It’s a familiar routine, but updated for our almost-adult lives.

Steven and Jeremiah have dusted off their khaki pants and returned to their part-time jobs at the beach club. They spend their days serving drinks and chasing golf carts, coming home exhausted and smelling faintly of chlorine and cash.

Conrad is in constant motion, a deep exhale of relief in human form. With the exams finished and the academic pressure lifted, the tension is gone from his shoulders. He spends his mornings on the water, the sun turning his hair blonde. He’s either sailing, catching the wind in the catamaran that hasn't been touched all year, or surfing, disappearing into the morning swell.

When Taylor is busy with Steven, those are my Conrad days. We read side-by-side on the hammock until the sun gets too high, or we take a long walk down the empty stretch of beach where the sand is cool beneath our feet. We rarely make plans; we just exist, close and comfortable.

The rest of the time, I become Taylor’s tour guide. We spend hours sprawled on beach towels, slathered in sunscreen, discussing everything and nothing. Sometimes, Jeremiah joins us. He drives us into town in his truck, blaring music, showing off the secret parking spots and the best places to get boardwalk fries. I love that the complicated history between us has finally smoothed out, that our friendship has snapped back to normal–easy laughter, casual teasing, and effortless companionship. When it’s just Taylor and me, I drive us into town in Susannah’s old SUV, showing her the sleepy bookstore with the creaky floors, the tiny local bakery with the best cinnamon rolls, and the quiet cove where we used to skip rocks. I show her the town I love so much, and watching her fall for it, too, makes me love it even more.

And then there are the double dates. Some nights, the four of us head out for dinner or mini-golf, and I am constantly amazed that Conrad and Taylor are actually hitting it off. They bond over the exact same brand of dry, sarcastic humor, trading deadpan observations about Steven's questionable fashion choices or the ridiculous tourists. I catch Conrad's eyes across the table, and the quiet pride in his smile, knowing he's making the effort for me, is the best feeling in the world.

-

The blissful ease of the week cracks abruptly when the air conditioning unit in the living room chooses a humid Tuesday afternoon to officially die. The air inside the house turns thick and sticky, clinging to our skin.

"We have to get out of here," I groan, peeling myself off the leather sofa. "The air is chewing on me."

"The magical sea breeze!" Jeremiah shouts, jumping up. "To the boardwalk!"

It takes some convincing, but eventually, all five of us pile into Jeremiah’s truck. We head toward the familiar glow that lights up the horizon–the summer carnival at the boardwalk.

The moment we step out of the car, the noise hits us: a joyous, messy symphony of tinny music, screaming riders, and the constant hiss of fryers. The boardwalk itself is a riot of blinking LEDs and neon signs. The heat is still aggressive, but now it’s mixed with the promised magical sea breeze and the irresistible smells of deep-fried dough and cotton candy.

We pass a brightly lit row of food trucks selling everything from gourmet tacos to spicy corn, and Jeremiah grins, his eyes wide.

"Whoa," He comments, already walking toward the corn truck. "They've really stepped up the food trucks this year."

"See?" I say, bumping his shoulder. "Aren't you glad we came?"

Steven, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, is less convinced. "How is this any less hot than if we'd stayed inside?"

I shoot him the regular, well-practiced sibling glare. "Because you have the magical sea breeze to cool you down," I deadpan.

Conrad steps closer to me, his presence a solid, calming weight at my side. He offers a dry smile toward Steven. "There's a lemonade place over there," he points out, his voice already a little raspy from the heat. "Might help."

Taylor rolls her eyes dramatically, pulling her hair up into a messy knot. "Cool breeze my ass. I want some ice cream." She looks over at me sarcastically. "Nature's air conditioning."

We walk out of a brightly painted ice cream shop a few minutes later, all of us eating our own cups of melting sweetness. I’m savouring a scoop of dark cherry when we approach the section of the boardwalk dedicated to the carnival games. My eyes instantly light up. The games–the popping balloons, the rotating ducks, the basketball hoops–they always pull me in.

Steven, who has known me literally forever, notices the change in my expression instantly.

"No. No, no, no," Steven says, holding up both hands like he’s trying to ward off a curse. "Belly, I see what you're thinking and no. It is way too hot to play games outside."

I glance at Conrad, who is watching me with a small, knowing smile; the playful light in my eyes must be contagious, because his face immediately brightens with my excitement.

"Why not? It’ll be fun! I promise," I plead, turning back to Steven with a pout.

Jeremiah snorts, shaking his head. "Fun? Because I seem to remember the last time we were here, you were crying." He turns to Taylor, leaning in conspiratorially to deliver the family lore. "Belly was twelve, and Conrad beat her at Shoot Your Shot, and her penalty was to ride the Tower of Terror. Belly, you were so scared you threw up."

I feel my cheeks flush scarlet. "I was sick," I insist, trying to sound dignified.

Conrad, who had been quietly finishing his ice cream, cuts in with a perfectly dry, sassy tone. "Sick with fear. My momma had to throw out your clothes and carry you home in a caftan." Jeremiah and Steven burst into fits of laughter. Taylor, my true ride or die, at least has the decency to give me an empathetic look of support, but I can see the corners of her mouth ticking upward.

"Well, I'm not twelve anymore," I declare hotly, trying to reclaim some authority.

Conrad’s eyes flick down to my body–the yellow dress, the barely there straps–and back up to my face. The air suddenly thickens, ignoring the sea breeze. He says, softly, and with a smirk I want to kiss right off his handsome face, "No, you're not."

I feel a physical surge of heat–nothing at all to do with the humidity. I take a step closer. "And my technique has gotten a whole lot better since then." I put all the heat I can muster into the statement.

Conrad closes the distance between us until we're only inches apart, his eyes dark and hungry. "Yes, it most certainly has."

"You think you still got what it takes?" I challenge, the memory of late nights in his dorm room flashing between us like a spark plug firing.

Conrad is about to reply; a slow, devastating smile starting to curve his mouth, when Taylor shoves her empty ice cream cup between us.

"Okay, JESUS! Keep it in your pants the both of you. It's hot enough out here."

Steven watches us in mock disgust. "Yeah, Fisher, big brother standing right here. And please, not another Great Boardwalk Showdown."

I spin towards Steven as my eyes widen in delight and taunting. "Why not? Why not?"

Steven fights back a smile, his eyes shining with the competitive spark that always ignites when I challenge him. "No, Belly–what are you doing?"

Taylor claps her hands, instantly on board. "Oh my god, YES! Great Boardwalk Showdown! Belly always used to give me the play-by-play, but now I'm down to finally participate. So what's the prize?"

Jeremiah shrugs, licking melted dark chocolate ice cream off his thumb. "Losers have to buy the winners the biggest bag of candy of their choosing."

Taylor rolls her eyes, tossing her hair. "Really? Candy? No, I mean, like, can't we think of something sexier?" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at Steven.

"Candy's always been the prize," Jeremiah insists.

Steven snaps his fingers. "Yo, I got it. Losers have to try and score some booze for tonight." He holds up a hand, preempting the obvious protest. "No fake IDs allowed. You have to use charm, wit, or desperate pleas."

Everyone agrees immediately. The new stakes are high enough to be interesting, but low enough to be fun.

Jeremiah points across the boardwalk. "Okay, let's start at the arcade, though, because it's hot as balls out here."

Steven grabs my arm. "Boys V Girls! Let's go!"

We all run in, laughing as we burst through the plastic curtain and into the cool, dark air of the arcade.

The first game is Laser Tag. The boys–Team Conrad, with Steven and Jeremiah flanking him–manage to win easily. They are a coordinated wall of dark denim and competitive ferocity, their lasers lighting up the hazy arena. They emerge from the exit ramp sweaty and boasting.

"Don't worry, Tay," I tell Taylor, nudging her. "We'll get them next time."

"Sure, B. Be right back, I need a pee break." Taylor walks away, heading toward the restrooms.

Conrad, overhearing, slings an arm around Steven’s shoulder, a grin splitting his face. "Get them next time? I think we're playing Capture the Flag next, and if I remember correctly..." He looks over at Steven.

"YES!" Steven shouts, bumping fists with Conrad. "I got this, bro!"

As Jeremiah and Conrad walk a few steps ahead to scope out the next game, I laugh at Steven.

"What? WHAT?" Steven demands, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're ridiculous," I say, warmly.

"What, you wanna play? A little brother versus sister challenge?"

"No, no, no, it's all Taylor. She's a little spider monkey," I reply, knowing exactly how Taylor moves when she's trying to win.

Steven scoffs. "Doesn't matter. She's still gonna get her butt whooped."

"Oh please, your weak arms," I tease, hitting his shoulder gently.

"My weak arms?" Steven flexes his bicep and playfully hits my shoulder back, not quite gently.

I catch his arm. "Yeah, okay, okay." I drop my voice, a wave of affection hitting me. "Seriously, though, I'm so happy you guys are here. And you and Taylor? It's so sweet. You look really happy."

Steven’s playful grin softens, replaced by a genuine warmth. He looks toward the restroom door. "Yeah, me too. And you and Conrad? You guys look good, Belly. Like, really good. It's... easy again."

"It is," I confirm, the contentment radiating off me.

"But I'm warning you now: the 'easy again' vibe is about to vanish the second Taylor suggests a winner-takes-all tournament." Steven says, leaning in like he's sharing a great secret.

"She can be a tyrant, but I love her," I reply with a laugh.

Steven has a thoughtful look on his face, starting to agree. "Yeah, me t—" He cuts off abruptly, twisting around quickly, his whole body startled. "What, Taylor?" She had walked up silently behind him, her hands already settling impatiently on her hips.

She starts to smile, a playful accusation in her voice. "What do you mean? Why are you being mean?"

"Being mean? What are you talking about?" Steven says, leaning in close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, his voice suddenly low and playful.

"Alright, fine, fine, fine. Let's do this," Taylor says, giving him a quick shove toward the next game.

–

We join Jeremiah and Conrad, who are standing by a large, brightly lit rock climbing wall. It towers over the rest of the arcade, its surface studded with neon-colored handholds in electric green, orange, and pink. The gate to the climbing space is wide open, but there's no attendant in sight.

Steven immediately reaches out a hand to test the rough, textured surface of the wall. "You think I can just go?"

"Oh, wait, wait, you can't actually do that without a harness!" a panicked, slightly breathless voice interrupts.

We all turn. Standing there, adjusting a blue arcade uniform, is Cam. His shirt looks freshly pressed, and he's fiddling nervously with the hem.

"Cam? Cam Cameron?" Jeremiah asks, a wide, surprised grin breaking across his face.

My stomach does a soft flip of nerves. "Wait, are we in trouble?"

Cam smiles, and he looks exactly the same–kind and earnest, but with slightly shorter hair. "I mean, officially there’s no horseplay on or around the rock wall, but unofficially it’s the most exciting thing to happen all day."

Conrad, who had been watching the scene unfold with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight and a muscle ticking near his ear, slowly steps closer to me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask Cam. "I thought you were doing some internship on a fancy whaling boat?"

Cam shrugs, fiddling with a piece of his uniform badge. "That fell through."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I reply sincerely. "This uniform, though, super cool, very official."

"Thanks, Belly," Cam says, his gaze lingering on me for a second too long, a gentle warmth in his eyes.

Steven is watching the entire interaction, a slow, gleaming smirk spreading across his face as he looks pointedly at Conrad's suddenly rigid posture. Conrad’s shoulders seem to hunch, pulling inward as if physically trying to block Cam from my sight.

Conrad finally interrupts, his voice low and tight, cutting through the reunion like a snapped wire. "Okay, great seeing you and catching up with you, but we have some unfinished business."

Is he actually jealous? I can't tell if the tension radiating off him is annoyance or something else entirely, but the air feels thinner all of a sudden.The casual air has evaporated. He reaches out, his fingers finding the crook of my elbow, and gently steers me away from Cam and toward the climbing wall. I give him a sharp, questioning look, but he just shrugs, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

-

The challenge is on. Taylor and Steven race off to the rock climbing wall like two hyperactive monkeys, scrambling up the neon handholds with reckless abandon. Jeremiah and I cheer them on relentlessly. 

"Come on, Steve-O, use that monkey reach!" 

"Come on, Taylor, you've got this, get low!" 

Conrad stands slightly apart, his arms crossed over his chest, pretending to focus intently on Steven's climb. But his gaze is sharp and restless; while he watches my brother's ascent, his eyes keep flitting back over to Cam, then quickly settling on me, a private tension visible in the set of his jaw.

All throughout, I notice Cam shyly glancing over at Jeremiah as he cheers wildly for Steven. It isn't a casual look; his eyes drift over and linger, catching the easy warmth of Jere's bright smile or the enthusiastic, unselfconscious way he moves, his energy practically vibrating. Cam quickly pulls back his gaze whenever Jeremiah looks close to turning his way. His expression is soft and thoughtful, a quiet contrast to the general chaos.

The race is incredibly close, the climbing harnesses screeching and groaning as they scramble up the neon holds; their shoes scraping frantically against the textured wall. Steven, his face strained and bright red, fueled by the pressure and his innate competitive streak, just manages to slap the red flag at the top half a second before Taylor. The faint sound of the fabric snapping against the wall signals his victory.

Taylor comes sliding down the harness rope in a frustrated huff, her arms crossed tight against her chest. "I was so close, babe, ugh!"

"It's okay, hey, don't worry about it." I bump her shoulder. "I love being the underdog, it fuels me."

Conrad is leaning against the railing, his eyes on me, the deep smile not just playing on his lips, but crinkling the corners of his eyes. He pushes off the railing, taking one slow step toward me, and there's a spark of pure admiration in his gaze–a look that says that's my girl–before he nods in confirmation. He loves my competitive side.

"Where to next?" Cam asks, still adjusting his uniform.

"It's their call," I say, gesturing to the winning team.

Conrad straightens completely, a different kind of energy snapping into his posture. He rubs his hands together once, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I don't know about you, Belly, but I think it might be time... to Shoot Your Shot!" he says playfully, whispering the last part with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"Oh, you're on."

-

We all walk outside toward the large, brightly lit basketball game. As we move through the crowded boardwalk, I notice that Jeremiah lingers by the back to walk with Cam. He throws an arm around Cam’s shoulder, laughing at something he says, which makes me smile. Go get it, Jere.

We arrive at the basketball station, the balls oversized and bright orange. The noise of the arcade fades, replaced by the pounding music from the nearby Ferris wheel. Conrad is immediately sizing me up as the young attendant is getting the game ready.

"Hope you packed your 'A' game, Belly," Conrad taunts, a smirk playing on his lips. "It's been a while since you had anyone to compete with besides little kids at the beach shop."

"You've been holed up with books for so long, I doubt you remember how to aim for anything that isn't a transfer application," I fire back, stepping up to the line.

"Too bad for you, Belly, basketball is all about angles," Conrad counters, his voice low and challenging.

"Mm..." I pause, meeting his gaze. "Too bad for you, I had such a great trigonometry tutor." I hold his eyes, the simple memory of late-night study sessions turning into late-night sessions over FaceTime sparking a heat between us that has nothing to do with basketball.

"Thank you," he replies, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face.

A clearing throat behind us breaks the moment. We both turn toward Cam, who is smiling at us sheepishly. "Okay, five balls each, most baskets win. On your marks, get set, go!"

We start the game. Jeremiah is shouting, "Come on, Connie, for the win!" and Taylor is yelling, "Go, Belly, you got this!" We shoot, and shoot, and shoot; the sound of the balls hitting the metal backboard loud and insistent, competing with the boardwalk music.The balls are oversized and slick under my palms, and my shoulders burn slightly with the repetitive motion, but Conrad and I are pretty evenly matched so far.

On the next one, Conrad pauses, then spins the basketball on one finger–a cocky, familiar move; the worn leather a dark blur against the light. I have a sudden, blinding flashback to the volleyball tournament last summer, then just as quickly, an image of us on the kitchen counter that night fills my mind. A wave of heat rushes over my skin, turning my cheeks bright red, the memory short-circuiting my focus. I miss the shot entirely.

"Shit!" I cry out in frustration.

"In your face!" Conrad shoots and scores easily, the net making that satisfying, sharp swish sound.

"Okay, I let you have that one so you don't weep when I win," I shoot back, fighting the hot embarrassment.

"Okay, sure you did, yeah," he says, grinning that irritating, perfect grin of his.

I slam the next ball into the hoop. It rattles the rim and drops straight through. Conrad turns his whole body toward me, holding the ball up. He covers his face with one hand, his eyes staying locked on mine, and shoots the ball in without looking. It swishes cleanly.

Conrad, cocky and confident, lowers his hand. "I mean..."

I am intensely frustrated because he’s winning, but the sight of his arrogance, the playful challenge in his eyes, sends a quick, hot pulse through my veins. My skin, already damp from the game, suddenly feels charged, and the boardwalk heat seems to pool low in my stomach, and deep between my legs.

I turn to Taylor and ask for a hair tie, sweeping all my hair up into a high, tight ponytail. I run one hand through the length of it once it's up, pushing the damp strands away from my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Conrad gulping, his throat working. The casual dismissal of his own arousal is gone; he is now well and truly flustered.

I shoot the next ball in, the focus sharp and cold. He misses his turn, the ball bouncing off the rim.

I know, in that instant, I have it in the bag. His concentration is shattered by something hotter than the sun, and his next shot is a desperate attempt. He misses it, the ball bounding away.

I take the last ball, my focus laser-sharp. The ponytail tightens the skin at my temples, and I can feel Conrad's gaze like a hot, physical weight pinned to my back. I ignore the noise, ignore the sweat, and just flick my wrist. The ball arcs, kisses the backboard, and drops through the net with a clean swoosh.

Conrad's final ball misses the hoop entirely, bouncing off the side rim.

Taylor screams, tackling me from the side. We jump up and down, adrenaline and triumph surging through me. Jeremiah slaps his palm to his forehead with a loud groan of frustration, while Steven throws his hands up in the air in theatrical disbelief.

"Belly Conklin is the winner!" Cam announces, giving me a wide, genuine smile.

Conrad approaches us, his competitive fire slowly giving way to that familiar, hungry look. Taylor sees it immediately and makes herself scarce. She drags the other boys away, under the pretense of a sudden intense craving for a giant pretzel, leaving Conrad and me alone by the bright, blinking lights of the game booth.

"As much as it pains me to say it," Conrad murmurs, his eyes dark, "it was a good win."

"Yeah, well, I told you I'd kick your ass, so..." I tilt my head back, enjoying the moment of victory.

He jerks his head toward the shelf of stuffed toys–the traditional prize. "I think you get to pick a prize."

I look at the oversized plushies, then back at his face. The moment heats up, the carnival lights blurring around us. "It's okay," I say, my voice dropping, "I think I'd rather pick a reward." I emphasise the last word, the reference to our high-stakes study game hanging thick in the air.

He takes a slow step closer, his hands sliding into the front pockets of his jeans, the movement pulling the denim tight across his hips. His eyes don't leave mine. The electricity between us is palpable, sharp enough to cut the humid air.

I bring my finger to my lips, tapping lightly, feigning deep thought and stretching out the delicious tension between us. "Hmm, where do I want it?" I murmur, my gaze fixed on his as I slowly drag my hand down my chin, across my jaw, then along the side of my neck. My fingertips pause just as they lightly brush my collarbone. Conrad swallows tightly, his focus absolutely locked on my hand. I tap the very spot on my collarbone where he left his mark on me, knowing that it’s still faintly visible. "Maybe here?"

He closes the final distance between us, the suddenness of his movement making my breath catch. I watch his head start to dip down–the promise of his mouth and the memory of the mark overwhelming every other thought.

"Okay, lovebirds, next game!" Steven yells, suddenly reappearing. He claps his hands loudly. "Bells, you choose!"

Chapter Text

Conrad

Belly’s eyes are bright with mischief as she declares the final game. "We're going back to the arcade for…Dance Dance Revolution!"

Steven groans while Taylor cheers.

"I volunteer as tribute," Jeremiah declares, stepping forward with a huge, confident grin. "I'm the king of DDR. Team Belly, you are going down!”

But Belly isn’t going down without a fight. She is all laser-focus as she approaches Cam, hooking her finger around the elbow of his uniform shirt and gently pulling him a few steps away from the group. I watch her lean in and speak quietly, and I know exactly what she’s doing: stacking the deck. Cam has always been deceptively good at anything requiring coordination.

I watch Belly grin mischievously, her head cocked to one side, then see Cam nod enthusiastically, and they both laugh–a shared, conspiratorial sound.

A sharp, possessive stab of jealousy hits me–hot and immediate. The sight of Belly talking and laughing with another guy, even Cam, who is the definition of harmless, tightens my chest. She’s with me now, I think darkly, my therapy-induced control completely gone.

I saunter over, forcing a casual swagger I don't feel.

I interrupt their conversation mid-sentence. "Hey, man, Jere’s over there doing his pre-game stretches if you wanna join him." I let my eyes rake over Cam's uniform. "You might need it."

Cam looks slowly from me to Belly; a slow, knowing look crossing his face, acknowledging the obvious turf war. He just smiles and gives a small nod before heading over to join Jeremiah.

Belly turns to me, one eyebrow arched, her mouth fighting a smile. She knows exactly what I did. I look back at her, feeling a familiar sheepish heat creep up my neck.

"What?" I challenge, trying to sound innocent.

"Nothing, nothing," she says, her eyes gleaming. "I've just never seen you this jealous before."

I can't fight the thrill that runs through me as she calls me out. God, I love that she sees me. "You must not have been paying attention during your sixteenth birthday dinner," I mumble, thinking back to the awkward tension of that night.

Belly’s smile widens, delighting in my possessiveness. She knows we’re in a crowded place, with four other people nearby, and we can’t get too carried away. She leans in, inhaling deeply. "Hey, do you smell that?"

"Hmm? Smell what?" I ask, still looking at her darkly, the urge to kiss her almost overpowering.

"I smell a comeback," she whispers.

I smile slowly, my gaze dropping to her mouth, noticing the soft curve of her bottom lip. "Oh, do you?"

She nods, "Mmmhmm." We inch closer together, the blare of the arcade music and the distant roar of the ocean fading as our focus narrows completely onto each other.

"Okay," Jeremiah says, suddenly appearing like a bright, unwelcome flash of sunlight between us, placing a cautious hand on both my shoulder and Belly's. "It was my turn to break up this whole... thing... you guys have going on." He looks back and forth between us. "Game's ready."

We all gather at the DDR machine. The flashing, hypnotic lights of the dance pads illuminate the space. Jeremiah and Cam step onto the pads, and the trash talk starts immediately.

Jeremiah strikes a ridiculous pose, his limbs flung out theatrically. "Hope you’re ready. My moves are legendary, Cam-Cam."

Taylor, folding her arms, shouts, "Legendary for tripping over air, maybe, Jere. You look like a baby giraffe trying to walk."

"Seriously," Cam agrees, adjusting his stance with a dry smile. "I did competitive robotics in high school. I'm literally wired for complex, timed footwork."

Jeremiah snickers, then spins dramatically. "Yeah, man. You're an engineer. I'm an athlete. Get ready to watch the master work his magic."

"Just try to keep up," Cam says, the edge in his voice subtle but clear, his eyes fixed on the screen.

The lights flash, the music starts, and they begin. It's a close game, the metal pads thumping under their feet in a relentless, syncopated rhythm. The rest of us are screaming encouragement and laughing at their ridiculous poses. Cam is unexpectedly fluid and precise, hitting every arrow with neat, practiced steps, while Jere relies on pure, wild energy, his whole body swinging with the momentum.

As the difficulty ramps up, Jeremiah's broad grin starts to narrow into a look of genuine surprise. He glances across the pads at Cam–just a quick, focused look–and the shock seems to snap his concentration into overdrive, making his movements sharper, fueled by the unexpected challenge.

It’s not enough, though. The final screen flashes. Cam wins.

Taylor, and Belly cheer, both high-fiving Cam like he’s just won the Olympics. Steven, however, goes over to goad my brother. "I'm baffled right now. Those? Those were your legendary moves?"

Jeremiah shoves him. "Like you could do better!"

I approach Belly, my gaze locked on her face. She’s radiating pure victory, her eyes bright and the color high in her cheeks. A rush of pure, effortless affection hits me, warm and immediate, like the first plunge into the ocean on a hot day. The intensity in her–that focused, brilliant energy that only comes out when she’s competing–is one of the things I love most about her.

"Where to next?" I ask, my voice low.

"Follow me!" Belly says, grabbing my wrist and pulling me through the throng of people. The sudden contact of her hand on my skin sends a quick, sharp heat straight up my arm, overriding the cool air. The combination of her adrenaline and her complete focus on the game is a potent charge, tightening my chest and making my palms sweat.

She leads us past the flashing lights and into the roar of the Go-Karts. The track is lit by harsh yellow floodlights, and the smell of exhaust fumes and burnt rubber hangs heavy in the humid air. The final game–the tiebreaker–is set.

"Wait, wait, wait," Steven protests, pulling his wallet out. "We're not trusting your driving on this, Belly. That's a clear advantage for Team Conrad." Jeremiah slams his elbow into Steven’s side, giving him a sharp, incredulous look.

"Oh, it's not me," Belly says, giving a conspiratorial glance toward Taylor. "It's Taylor and Cam in the driving seats. Conrad and I, as Team Captains, will be your cheering section."

Steven rolls his eyes, letting out a heavy, exaggerated sigh, then claps a hand on Jeremiah's back and they start walking toward the Go-Karts.

Belly smirks at their retreating backs, before turning to face her drivers, her hands on Taylor's and Cam's shoulders. Her voice drops to a serious, dramatic register.

"Listen to me. We are two for two. This is it. This is for the Boardwalk Showdown. This is for free booze! This is for the dignity of all the girls who have ever thrown up on The Tower of Terror! This is for the pride of Cousins Beach!"

It’s classic Belly: making everything dramatic and life-or-death. Taylor and Cam are nodding fiercely as Belly’s voice picks up, their faces appropriately solemn, almost devout. They all break into cheers of “Huzzah!” at the end of the speech.

I watch Belly finish her briefing with a fierce look. She hugs Taylor tightly–a quick, aggressive embrace–and then gives Cam a solid, encouraging clap on the shoulder before the two drivers climb into their karts. Steven and Jeremiah are already buckled into their Go-Karts, idling loudly at the starting line. Belly and I follow them, heading up the stairs to the viewing platform, ready for the final show.

The race starts with a screech of tires and a cloud of smoke.

Team Belly fights hard. Taylor is aggressive, cutting corners and bumping the rails, and Cam is focused, taking the turns with almost robotic precision. But Team Conrad is built for speed. Jeremiah is a surprisingly brutal driver, and Steven, fueled by the thought of making Belly do the consequence, is a madman on the straightaways. They cross the finish line with clear daylight between them and the other two.

Team Conrad wins by a mile.

Steven is practically vibrating with excitement. "Yes! Sucked in Tay Tay! You are so buying me beer tonight!" He and Jeremiah are high-fiving hard enough to knock each other over, their hands meeting with a loud slap.

Taylor pulls off her helmet in a frustrated huff, the plastic clattering loudly as she throws it onto the worn track pavement. "That was fixed. They definitely cheated."

Belly just shakes her head, a bright, easy laugh escaping as she walks over to me, accepting defeat with a grace I love to see. "A loss is a loss. We have to pay the consequence."

Jeremiah, still buzzing from the win, throws an arm around Belly, his eyes twinkling, "Good luck with the pleas, Bells."

Taylor immediately perks up. Her frustration is gone, replaced by a keen, mischievous energy. "Oh, we are going to kill this. Come on, Belly. We're going to put that yellow dress to work."

"Cam, thanks for your help, man!" Jeremiah shouts, slapping Cam hard on the back. Cam winces slightly, then waves, already turning and heading back to his post with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Belly and Taylor start walking toward the exit of the boardwalk, shoulders squared. I watch them go, my victorious grin turning into something softer, more satisfied. The real win wasn't the Go-Kart race; it’s the reward I get to bestow upon Belly now that the competition is over.

Taylor glances back, sees the look on my face–all slow intention and focus–and immediately takes off, hustling to catch up to Steven and Jeremiah, who are already halfway to the truck, loudly discussing their favourite brand of light beer. She throws a quick, knowing, and thoroughly delighted smirk over her shoulder at Belly as she hightails it across the asphalt.

I catch up to her just as she reaches the edge of the parking lot.

"Hey," I murmur, pulling her gently by the arm, making her stop just outside the noisy arcade lights.

She turns, her eyes shining from the adrenaline and the boardwalk lights. "I know, I know, we're going," she says, already focused on the task.

"Not that," I whisper. "The game may be over, but I still owe you the reward from the basketball game."

She stops, the colour rising in her cheeks as the heat between us, ignored during the competition, flares up again. "I lost the Showdown, Conrad. I have to go secure the team's prize."

I lean in, dropping my voice until the arcade music is the only thing covering my words. "You won the basketball game, Belly. You looked at me, swept your hair up, and you broke my concentration. That kiss on the collarbone... that open-mouthed,” I lean in further, my breath warm against her ear, “hot…” further still, my nose just brushing her temple, “...wet kiss you earned? I'm cashing it in now."

"As the winner of the reward I earned," Belly retorts, her voice low and husky with challenge, like rough velvet. "I believe I get to choose when to cash it in. And I say you have to wait. I have some booze to buy."

She gives me a quick, taunting brush of her hand across my stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of my jeans–a fleeting, electric touch that sends a current straight through the fabric of my shirt–and saunters off to catch up with Taylor.

I groan, the sound pulled low from my chest. She’s definitely prolonging the agony, but the truth is, the escalating tension is so good it's almost painful. I shove my hands back in my pockets and follow her toward the parking lot, the image of the collarbone kiss still searing into my mind.

Taylor, however, insists on a tactical pause. "We need to put our camouflage on," she announces with zero explanation, pulling Belly toward the boardwalk restrooms. I don't know what that means, but I know it's going to take a while.

While the girls are gone, Jeremiah fidgets restlessly, his eyes boring into the side of my head. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his hands opening and closing at his sides.

"What's up, Jere?" I ask, nudging him. "I can feel those baby blues piercing into my skull."

Steven snickers beside me.

Jeremiah runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "I was thinking... of inviting Cam back to the house with us tonight. Do you think it'd be weird for Bells?"

I'm a little surprised, but the idea makes a genuine smile form on my face for my brother. The way Cam was watching Jere's ridiculous dance moves during DDR was not exactly subtle. Plus, a distraction for Cam means less possessive internal monologue for me.

"No, man, I think it'll be fine," I say, smiling and giving him a supportive punch on the arm.

His face immediately lights up with relief and excitement; that classic, wide Jere grin back in place, and he bolts to find Cam.

Steven shakes his head, watching Jere go. "So, Jere and Cam then?"

"Jere and Cam," I agree, finding a spot on a bench.

Steven looks like he’s about to launch into a detailed, snickering dissection of my brother's love life, but then something catches his eye in the distance.

"Holy shit," Steven breathes.

I don't pay any attention to him because the moment is stolen by the door to the restrooms opening. Taylor walks out first, her makeup and hair suddenly done–smooth blowout, perfect eyeliner. She looks great, but my attention is immediately drawn to the person who walks out just behind her.

It’s Belly.

In a desperate, theatrical effort to look over twenty-one, Belly has undergone a transformation. The damp, messy ponytail is gone, her hair falls down her back in soft waves, and her makeup is bold and sensual: a smokey, smudged charcoal eye and a dark, velvety lip that contrasts sharply with her pale skin. Even though she's wearing the same simple yellow dress as before, the dark makeup gives it a completely different attitude. It looks like the knit fabric is suddenly hugging her curves impossibly tighter–the delicate straps, the narrow fit around her waist, the soft curve of her hips.

My breath jams in my throat. She looks like a beautiful stranger–all dark intention and dangerous confidence. My body goes instantly, fiercely rigid. This isn't the girl who curled up on my lap for study breaks; this is a young woman demanding what she wants. I’m never going to last, I think, the intensity of my desire hitting me like a physical blow. The promise of the collarbone kiss suddenly seems tame compared to what I want to do to her now.

Suddenly, a jolt of reality hits me: I am ogling Belly–my girl, whom I've just gone all caveman over–right next to her older brother. I quickly snap my gaze away from Belly's mouth and glance at Steven.

Luckily, Steven is too busy doing his own version of ogling. His attention is entirely focused on Taylor, who is running a hand through her perfectly styled hair. He's totally oblivious to my moment of internal meltdown.

Belly and Taylor finally reach us. Belly stops directly in front of me, her eyes dancing with that knowing look–she knows exactly the effect she’s just had.

"We're ready," she says, her voice low and confident.

I manage a slight nod, my mouth too dry to form a proper sentence. The mission to secure the alcohol is underway.

Chapter Text

Conrad

An hour later, the mission is a stunning success. Belly and Taylor return, triumphantly holding a slab of cold beer (the means of acquisition remain a closely guarded secret).

We're all back at the beach house now, crammed around the coffee table in the family room, windows flung open in a furious attempt to try and catch the humid night breeze. The moms have wisely turned in early, leaving the six of us to our noisy, buzzing freedom.

We're playing a chaotic round of "Never Have I Ever" that quickly spirals into revealing, loud confessions. The air in the living room is thick with warmth and excitement, the room vibrating with laughter and the metallic clink of beer bottles.

"Never have I ever been arrested!" Steven yells, downing his beer.

Jeremiah laughs so hard he nearly falls off the couch. "Steven, you've been written up for littering–that doesn't count! It was a warning!"

"It was a paper trail, Jere," Steven argues back loudly. Everyone is happily buzzed, leaning into the intimacy of the late hour, and the atmosphere feels charged with reckless abandon.

Jeremiah claps his hands together, his eyes shining with mischief. “Okay, okay. Let's make things interesting. Never have I ever had sex in a pool.”

I notice Cam, who is clutching a bottle of kombucha in his lap, flush a bright, immediate red at the sharp turn the topic has taken.

Steven and Taylor both look at each other; a hint of glee passing between them, and simultaneously take a long drink from their bottles.

Belly lets out a high-pitched, dramatic "Gross!", scrunching up her nose so tightly that wrinkles form across the bridge. "Okay. No swimming in the pool until it has been thoroughly disinfected.” I throw my head back and laugh with her.

“My turn," She then announces, straightening up and taking control of the game. "Never have I ever had sex in a car." She smirks, immediately exchanging a knowing smile with me, both of us recalling our intensely heated post-Slurpee encounter last summer, secure in the knowledge that we technically didn’t go the whole way in a vehicle.

Taylor is the only one who drinks. "Okay, okay," she whines, rolling her eyes. "At this rate I'm going to be hammered."

I take my turn, deciding to keep the tension high and continuing to reference last summer. My voice is low, adding a layer of deliberate heat to the question that's meant only for Belly. "Never have I ever had sex on the beach."

Jere, Steven, and Taylor all groan in unison before tipping their heads back to drink. The group dissolves into a cacophony of private, shared guilt, their laughter loud and slightly manic.

Taylor is huffing, deep in thought, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tries to craft a question that will finally prevent her from taking another drink, while still staying on theme. She slams her bottle down for emphasis, drawing all eyes to her. "My turn. Never have I ever had more than one orgasm during sex or for the fellas, given more than one orgasm."

Steven immediately stares at Taylor, his face a perfect mask of wide-eyed disbelief and mock shame. Everyone else laughs, and Jeremiah leans over, his eyes taunting Steven with pure mischief as he takes a sip from his bottle. I lift my bottle in a silent, personal salute to Belly, and take a small sip. The corners of Belly’s mouth tick up in amusement.

"I'm sorry, babe," Taylor says to Steven with an exaggerated pout. "I'm just not built for it."

Steven snaps his attention away from Taylor, throwing his hands up in mock surrender, before zoning in on Jere and I. “Okay, Conrad I can get behind, but you, Jere, I'm having serious doubts. They were probably faking it after the first one.”

“Okay, fuck you man. Trust me, they never fake it.” Jeremiah defends fiercely, then winks at Cam, who flushes and quickly looks down at the bottle in his hands.

My eyes are fixed on Belly, who is looking back at me, a challenge brewing in her gaze. I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows, a silent dare. The room goes quiet as she slowly lifts her bottle. She meets my eyes and takes a deliberate sip, the amber liquid catching the light.

Taylor's jaw literally drops as her eyes zero in on Belly. Everyone else's head whips toward her, and Belly goes bright, shocking red, though she doesn't break our gaze.

A few things happen at once:

Taylor lets out a low whistle, then turns her head slowly to look at me with undisguised approval. "Damn, Fisher."

Jeremiah and Cam look at each other, snickering behind their hands like schoolboys.

Steven groans, slapping both hands over his eyes as if trying to block out a terrible memory, his voice muffled. "Oh, God. No. Make it stop, please, make it stop. God dammit, Taylor."

The lingering tension of Belly’s silent confession hangs heavy in the room, thick enough to touch, punctuated by Steven's pained theatrics. No one moves, the game momentarily forgotten as every eye drifts between Belly and me.

Just as the silence threatens to become unbearable, Cam gently swoops in to save the day, clearing his throat loudly, "My turn," he announces, his voice a steady, grounding presence. But all I can process is Belly, still holding my gaze and letting a slow, private smirk play on her lips–the look of a woman who knows exactly what she's done and is enjoying every second of my stunned silence.

-

As the night progresses, the fun and laughter start to wind down into a quieter, more intimate kind of energy. Steven, worn out from his morning shift at the club and a long day of competitive rivalry, pulls Taylor up, "Movie time," he mumbles, dragging her upstairs. We hear the soft, distant murmur of the TV starting up seconds later.

Minutes later, Jeremiah and Cam rise almost simultaneously. "We're hitting the beach," Jere announces, grabbing a jacket. "Need the ocean air." Cam just smiles, following Jere out the back door. The two of them have slipped easily into their own bubble, and the sharp click of the screen door closing leaves the vast, quiet family room feeling open and suddenly huge. The lingering warmth of the lamps casts a soft, final glow on the mess of empty bottles and discarded chips.

It leaves just Belly and me.

I look at her, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, the lamplight softening the edges of her dark, dramatic makeup. Her eyes, however, are sharp and intense. The postponement of her reward is the only thing hanging in the air between us.

"So," I say, licking my lips, my voice rough. "No more distractions."

Belly doesn't reply. She just holds my gaze; a slow, knowing smile curving her dark lip. She unfolds herself from the sofa and stands up. She doesn't walk toward the stairs or the hall; she walks right toward the kitchen, her hips swaying slightly in that tight yellow dress. I follow, needing no verbal invitation.

We stop just inside the kitchen doorway, bathed in the dim light of the overhead fan. The air is still humid, but the scent of the ocean and old wood is comforting.

We both realise it at the same time: we're in the kitchen.

This room holds history. It's where we had that desperate, hungry late-night rendezvous after the volleyball tournament; where we found moments of intimacy before we were ever truly intimate. The memory of her pressed against the counter, the taste of salt and fear on her skin, instantly floods my mind.

She leans back against the countertop, "I choose here…to cash in," she whispers, her voice a low challenge. "I think the reward will be…more meaningful here."

I cross the remaining distance in two steps, trapping her against the counter. My hands bracket her waist. "You think so?"

"I know so."

I don't waste any more time. I slam my mouth down onto hers. It's not a kiss; it's a collision–deep, possessive, hungry, and meant to settle a debt and claim ownership. Her dark, glossy lipstick immediately smears onto my mouth, and I groan at the sudden taste of her, a mix of sweet, cosmetic and warm, pure Belly.

My hands leave her waist and slide up under the hem of her dress, finding the soft skin of her thighs. I pull her harder against me, moulding her hips to the rigid press of my cock, which is now straining against the denim of my jeans. She lets out a small, breathless sound that tastes like a plea and gets immediately swallowed by my mouth.

She breaks the kiss, her eyes wide, slightly disoriented. Her chest is heaving, and her breath comes in ragged gasps. "Conrad..."

"I know," I whisper, my voice rough with urgency, already trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, tasting the salty heat of her skin. I move past the fragile bones of her collarbone–the exact spot she earned. I suck there, hard and deliberately, listening to her sharp inhale, leaving a wet, dark mark. Reward cashed in.

"You smell like coconut and cheap boardwalk beer," I murmur against her neck.

"You smell like victory and desperation," she shoots back, her voice a breathy laugh as she pulls my head up to press her mouth to my jaw.

I scoop her up, my arms locked under her thighs. She automatically wraps her legs around my waist. The movement is seamless, practiced. I hoist her up and plant her onto the cool, hard countertop. The sharp contrast of the granite against her hot skin draws a startled gasp from her. The fucking sounds she makes.

Her arms instantly drop down, her hands fisting into the denim waistband of my jeans, jerking my hips closer to her. "We have to be quick," she breathes.

"Trust me," I whisper, my hands already moving to the hem of her dress. "With how today has gone, this will not take long. You just have to be quiet."

She nods quickly, her chest heaving as she hitches her dress up. I don't even bother to undo the button on my jeans; the pressure behind the zipper is a throbbing ache. I just slip myself out, quickly tear open a condom, and roll it on. I pull her underwear to the side, adjust my grip on her hips, and fill her with one deep, urgent drive. The friction is instantaneous and scalding, and she lets out a sharp, choked gasp, her fingernails digging into my belt loops.

I swallow the sound with my mouth, covering her lips with a frantic kiss, my tongue dominating hers with desperate speed. I thrust into her with a pace that is fast, primal, and intense, the thump of her hips against the cool counter a frantic metronome. The terrifying, exhilarating fear of getting caught–Jeremiah and Cam could come back at any minute, the rest of our family are just upstairs–sends a shockwave through her body. Her muscles tighten around me, as she comes almost immediately, squeezing down on me hard.

“Oh, good girl,” I breathe against her lips, picking up the speed of my thrusts, “You came so good for me, baby. Now, hold on tight while I earn that last drink.”

She wraps her hands around my neck, her feet digging into my back as I pound relentlessly into her hot, slick core, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing sharply in the quiet room. My name tumbles from her lips as a second, sharper wave of pleasure rolls through her, gripping me tightly as she cries out against my mouth, a sound half-swallowed by another desperate kiss.

The sudden, intense pleasure is my cue. I pump two final times and follow directly afterward, groaning a strangled, visceral sound into her mouth.

We take a minute, just standing there, pressed together in the quiet kitchen, holding each other tightly. The cool stone counter presses into the back of her thighs, and the only sounds are our heavy, ragged breaths.

I pull out, carefully taking the condom off and tucking myself back into my pants, while planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. I smooth her dress down, concealing the evidence, then grab a paper towel, wetting it under the faucet. We clean the countertop very carefully, leaving no trace. Hand in hand, we tiptoe out of the kitchen and take the stairs silently, heading for the privacy of my room.

We make it down the hall, stifling giggles every few steps like teenagers who just successfully pranked a principal. I push my door open and we slip inside.

I collapse onto my bed, pulling her down immediately beside me, still fully dressed. I roll onto my side, facing her, and smooth the damp, soft hair away from her temple.

"The best reward," she whispers, her eyes shining in the dim light.

"I agree," I murmur, kissing her forehead. I pull her close, my chin resting on the top of her head. I wish I could just drift into sleep like this, letting the quiet safety of her presence carry me away. But I break away with a low groan of protest, setting a quiet alarm on my phone, cursing the ground rules that my mom and Laurel had laid down at the start of summer. 

They had sat Steven, Taylor, Belly and me down in the family room before we could bring any of our bags upstairs.

“We know you’re couples, and we’re not stupid,” Mom had said with a knowing look. “You can spend time in each other’s rooms, as long as you wake up in your own beds.”

“And as long as you’re all being safe. And discreet.” Laurel had added with a grimace.

I still wasn't sure who was more embarrassed during that talk–them for having to say it, or us for having to sit there and nod. The trust they gave us is a fragile thing, but right now, with Belly tucked safely in my arms, completely hidden from the world, I feel like the safest place in the world is right here.

We are both starting to drift off, the rhythmic sound of our breathing the only noise, when a sharp, furious knock slams against the door, rattling the frame. We both start. Belly scrambles back, her eyes flying wide, adrenaline immediately replacing the calm ease that had settled over us.

"Fisher! Let me in!" Taylor's loud whisper, strained and sharp with urgency, cuts through the quiet.

I groan and roll off the bed, pulling the door open.

Taylor barrels past, not even sparing me a glance, her momentum carrying her straight to the bed. She grabs Belly's forearm, her grip tight, and yanks her up off the mattress.

Belly hesitates, looking back at me, her eyes reflecting a mix of apology and longing, like she’s being pulled away mid-sentence.

Taylor rolls her eyes with an audible puff of air. "Okay, say goodnight," she hisses under her breath, her voice tight with impatience, giving Belly a sharp, insistent tug. "But don't you dare try and stall. We have to talk about why you took that last sip."

Belly breaks free of Taylor's grasp just long enough to scramble the few inches toward me. She plants a quick, fierce kiss on my lips–a rushed, desperate stamp of ownership–murmuring, "Good night," against my mouth.

Then, with a final, hard tug, Taylor wrenches her toward the doorway, slamming the door shut behind them.

Chapter Text

Belly

"I can't believe you," Taylor hisses, her eyes wide as she elbows me. "Prom night! That was three whole months ago, Belly! Not to mention I had to find out that you hit the pleasure jackpot during a round of Never Have I Ever?" She dramatically slaps her chest. "That's major intel, B! You held out the biggest detail!"

I blush, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. I can’t help the small, satisfied smile playing on my lips. "I didn't hold out. I guess I just didn't realise it was such a big deal. It was just... intense. I figured that's just... what happens when you’re really into someone."

"No, that's not 'just what happens'–that's some advanced shit. It's relationship goals, B!" Taylor insists, pushing herself up onto one elbow, her face inches from mine and her voice sinking to a fierce whisper. “I thought you meant you just felt really good afterward! You never told me it was multiple! I mean, technically speaking, how did he do it? Is it a focus thing? Was it a switch? Did he stop and change positions? Did all that med school anatomy finally kick in?”

I feel my face heat up completely. The memories of prom night–the frantic energy, the dirty talk, the illicit heat of the whole night–are too personal; too raw to dissect with her.

“Taylor, I’m not talking to you about Conrad’s sex technique! Especially not if you’re gonna use it to coach my brother.” I whisper, swatting lightly at her arm. “The point isn’t even his technique. He’s always been… good. Amazing actually.”

I lower my voice, admitting the simple truth that makes our connection so unique. “And you know I’ve only ever been with him. I’m completely inexperienced. But that just makes it even better, you know? There’s no comparison. It’s just us figuring out us.”

Taylor slowly exhales, sinking back down onto her pillow but shaking her head and smiling warmly. "Sounds like it’s him figuring out you.” I stifle a laugh. “But fine, fine. Boundary established.”

She lies back down, but then immediately rolls back onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. 

“I’m really happy for you, Belly. And not just for the sex."

I roll to face her, my smile fading slightly as I catch the sincerity in her eyes. I slowly raise both my eyebrows in silent encouragement.

"No, you know what I mean. Am I happy that my bestie is getting mind-blowing sex on the regular? Yes. You fucking go get it, Queen. But am I even more thrilled that my best friend is finally being loved out loud and treated the way she deserves by the boy she’s loved since forever? Absolutely. You stuck through the hardest parts, and now you get the best part."

I squeeze her hand, a wave of sincere gratitude washing over me. "I know, Tay. Thank you.”

She wiggles her eyebrows, a look of pure mischief on her face, “Okay, now do you wanna hear all about my pool sex with Steven?”

I throw a pillow at her head with a giggle, “Goodnight, Taylor!” 

-

The morning after, Conrad meets me at my doorway for our morning walk, his eyes crinkling in a smile that speaks of everything from the night before. We tiptoe downstairs, trying to be perfectly discreet and innocent, only to find Jeremiah sitting at the kitchen counter, casually eating a bowl of cereal in the exact spot where we’d had sex twelve hours earlier. We exchange one silent, hysterical look–a mix of panic and triumph–before scrambling to the front door.

The next week or so melts into that perfect, easy summer rhythm. Days are spent with sun on our skin and salt in our hair. Nights are filled with the low hum of conversation, the laughter of a house full of people, and the quiet comfort of falling asleep in Conrad’s arms followed by a hurried escape back to my room in the early hours of the morning. The world feels balanced and complete.

-

The summer blur continues until the morning of my birthday. My rough introduction to the day is a tiara being shoved under my nose. I wake up to Taylor’s voice, loud and theatrical.

"Happy Birthday, Queen!" She shoves the plastic crown onto my head before I've even blinked.

"Jesus, Taylor, what time is it?" I mumble, batting weakly at the intrusive crown.

"Who cares? It's your official Day of Reign!" Taylor yells, already bouncing on the foot of my bed. She yanks the covers completely off me. "Now get up, Queen B. There are presents, and probably carbs, waiting downstairs."

I head downstairs, already feeling the special weight of the day. The kitchen is dazzlingly bright, filled with curling streamers in primary colors and the rich, sweet smells of my childhood. Mom has made my traditional Mickey Mouse pancakes, perfectly shaped and stacked. Everyone else is there–Steven, Jeremiah, Mom and Susannah–their voices a warm, unified roar shouting "Happy Birthday!" as I walk in.

But as I scan the room, a single point of white light dulls the color. My eyes land on the vacant chair pulled up beside Jeremiah. The most important person is missing.

Mom, ever observant, notices me looking around for Conrad. She hands me a plate of pancakes before settling the question. "He’ll catch up with you later, sweetie. I made him promise to let me at least have the morning with you before he whisks you away for your birthday adventure." She smiles. "Beck and I will drop you off to see him after breakfast on our way to the craft market."

At the words ‘birthday adventure’, a thrill shoots through me. My heart starts doing little excited jumps against my ribs.

Breakfast is a warm, wonderful affair. They all shower me with simple, meaningful gifts: a new leather journal from Taylor, with an inscription (Write down every new adventure. Don’t leave out the dirty parts. Love you forever.); a new pair of sunglasses from Steven, which he promptly tries to steal back; a waterproof portable speaker from Jeremiah (“So you can listen to something decent at the pool this summer. And quit blasting that sad indie music while you study.” He says, with a grin.); and finally, a beautiful, classic pearl bracelet from Mom and matching earrings from Susannah.

I spend a moment looking around the table, taking in the smiling faces of the people I love most. “Thank you, guys,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “Seriously. You all made this morning perfect.”

After eating until I'm absolutely stuffed, I slam down my glass of milk, still half-full, and bolt from the table. I stop by the kitchen one last time, grilling Mom on what to wear.

"Just something comfortable," she says, wiping down the counter. "Maybe wear your hair up. And don't forget your swimsuit."

I nod, pulling on comfortable white linen shorts and a soft, striped cotton tee that cinches at the waist over the top of my favourite red swimsuit. I pull my hair into a loose ponytail and jump into the car with Mom and Susannah.

"Are you excited, sweetie?" Susannah asks, turning back in her seat, her eyes shining with warmth.

"More than excited!" I admit, bouncing slightly in my seat. "I have no idea what to expect, which just makes it better. But I know that whatever Conrad has planned, it’s going to be amazing."

"He was on a mission," Mom chuckles softly from the driver's seat. "He’s been up since sunrise, making sure it was all perfect and ready in time for you. You really put a spring in that boy's step."

"That makes me so happy," I sigh, resting my head against the seat back, a profound sense of contentment washing over me.

Mom catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "I know, honey. It's written all over your face. That look... that’s the look I remember seeing on you all those years ago. It’s just deeper now. I swear, you could power the entire town with how happy you look."

"She's absolutely right," Susannah adds, her voice soft and full of emotion. "It’s not just you, though, Belly. It’s Conrad too. It’s wonderful for us to see him like this. After everything... you make him laugh again. You always have."

"He's been working so hard this last year," Mom sighs, glancing at Susannah, a shared, heavy understanding passing between them. 

Susannah continues Mom’s line of thinking in a way that only the oldest and truest of friends can, "But when he's with you, he just gets to breathe. He gets to be the kid who used to spend all day on the beach, not the guy carrying the weight of the world."

"I know what you mean," I say quietly, looking out the window as the familiar seaside shops start to pass by. "He does the same for me. He just... he feels like home. And it means everything to me that you both see it, too."

We finally stop at the harbour. Mom puts the car in park. I reach over and give her a genuine, heartfelt hug, holding her tight. "I love you," I whisper.

"Happy Birthday, sweetie." She whispers back.

I lean forward and give Susannah the same hug, whispering, “Thank you, Susannah. I love you too.”

“Have the best time today, darling girl.” She replies, her voice thick with emotion and her eyes glistening.

I get out of the car, waving goodbye until they drive away, the sedan's engine fading into the background noise of the harbour.

When I turn around, my breath hitches, and my heart stops.

Conrad is standing at the edge of the dock, his back to the wide expanse of sparkling blue water. He's wearing a light green henley shirt tucked into crisp khaki pants–casual, but somehow elevated, the fabric subtly emphasising the athletic width of his shoulders. He looks incredible; the perfect picture of sun-kissed perfection, embodying the spirit of the sea. His hair is perfectly messy, tousled by the sea breeze just enough to look effortless. In his hand is a big, beautiful bouquet of flowers: bright, textured sunflowers and lush, deep purple hydrangeas. He is smiling, that wide, unburdened smile that reaches his hazel eyes and crinkles the skin at the corners.

"Conrad!" I squeal, completely unable to contain myself. I run over to him, the dock boards thudding under my feet, throwing my arms around his neck. We hug hard, and he crushes me tight against his chest, the scent of his cologne and the sea breeze filling my lungs. He kisses me quickly, the taste of salt and sunshine on his lips. 

"Happy birthday, beautiful," he murmurs against my mouth.

"What are we doing today?" I ask, pulling back but still gripping his arms.

He doesn't answer. He just takes my hand, tucking the heavy, fragrant bouquet under his arm, and gently tugs me down the dock toward a beautiful, sleek catamaran docked at the end. It’s bigger than I remember Conrad’s boat to be, the deck gleaming white, contrasting sharply with the deep blue water of the harbor.

My eyes follow the clean lines of the hull until they land on the stern, where a name is painted in beautiful, sleek black cursive writing. My breath hitches. It’s a single word. Isabel.

I stop dead on the dock. The name–my name–stares back at me. It’s huge and permanent, etched onto the vessel.

"What?" I finally manage, turning to Conrad. "When?"

He smiles; a soft, proud crinkle around his eyes. He gestures to the catamaran. "I thought it was time for an upgrade. I’ve been looking for something big enough to handle longer trips, something that feels like home. And if I was going to commit to a serious upgrade, I had to do it right."

I feel a rush of emotion–not just surprise, but a deep, profound joy. He didn't just buy a boat; he named a serious piece of his future after me. Tears immediately well up in my eyes, blurring the sight of the gleaming deck.

"Conrad," I choke out, my voice thick. "It's... it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." I throw my arms around his neck, burying my face against his warm shoulder, completely overwhelmed by the silent, powerful declaration of commitment. "I love you. I can't believe you did this."

I quickly slip off my sandals, pick them up, and hold them tightly in one hand.

"Let's go," he says simply, his voice low and happy as he kisses the top of my head, pulling me onto the deck.

The catamaran is beautiful. The deck–polished to a mirror shine–is smooth and warm beneath my bare feet as Conrad helps me aboard. Within minutes, the gentle rocking of the boat replaces the static motion of the dock. We’re gliding out of the harbor, the sails snapping crisply overhead as they catch the first real pull of the ocean wind.

I lean against the rail, marvelling at how Conrad moves so effortlessly through the boat. He’s a different person out here: focused, confident, and completely in his element. He doesn't just manage the ropes and the sails; he speaks to them. His hands are strong and tanned against the white rigging, hauling ropes with a quiet efficiency. The wind whips past us, carrying the clean, sharp smell of the open ocean. I’m so glad I tied my hair up, because the wind is a wild thing, trying to rip the hair tie right out. The air is hot and heavy with sun, a stark contrast to the quick, cool movements of the boat.

Finally, he guides us to a secluded spot far from the shore. He moves to the bow, dropping the anchor with a smooth, practiced motion, and then expertly lowers the sails, securing the lines so the boat sits stationary and gently rocking in the calm water.

"Time for a swim," he says, his eyes gleaming.

I quickly strip down to my swimsuit. The water–a deep, inviting sapphire blue–looks perfect. We jump in simultaneously. The water is cool, silky, and immediately refreshing, washing the heat and lingering salt air right off my skin. We spend a little while just swimming together; a quiet, easy rhythm of strokes.

Then, Conrad stops. I glide toward him, and we tread water as he reaches for me. His arms wrap around my back, and I clutch his shoulders; the cool, wet skin beneath my hands smooth and firm. We kiss–a deep, slow kiss, our bodies buoyed by the water and moulded together, the taste of the sea blending with his mouth. It feels like we are the only two people in the world floating here.

After a long, breathless minute, we break apart, laughing quietly at the sudden intimacy. We take a few more easy laps around the boat before clambering back onto the deck, slipping on the warm, polished surface, dripping and laughing.

Conrad pulls out a picnic basket and a small cooler of drinks and ice. The wicker basket looks neatly packed, a true sign of his effort. I can’t believe how thoughtful he’s been. Inside the basket are all the essentials for a perfect day: thick, savoury sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper, bright red strawberries, a bag of salty kettle chips, and two cold bottles of sparkling lemonade.

We eat our lunch on the deck, talking about everything and nothing. The gentle sway of the boat is our only interruption. I notice he watches me constantly, the relaxed happiness still radiating off him like soft heat.

After we finish eating, I lay out a large towel near the bow and settle down to sunbathe. The deck is warm, almost hot, beneath me, the gentle rocking of the boat already making me drowsy. I can feel the heat of his gaze as he moves; a warm, heavy weight that lingers on my body while he clears the lunch mess.

I turn my head towards him. "I think it’s probably time to put more sunscreen on," I say, my voice a little husky. Then, I turn my body fully, lying on my front, exposing the line of my back and the red swimsuit straps. "Can you help me get my back?"

"Yeah," Conrad agrees, his voice a little deeper and rougher than normal. He grabs the bottle and squirts a cool, thick white line onto his palm. He kneels on the towel beside me and starts massaging the sunscreen into my skin, starting at my shoulders and working his way down. The pressure of his hands is firm and deliberate, the heat of his palm a startling contrast to the cool lotion.

I turn my head to look up at him. "It's pretty deserted out here, isn't it?"

Conrad stops rubbing for a fraction of a second. I can hear the faint sound of him swallow hard over the gentle lapping of the waves. "Umm, yeah," he manages.

I turn my head back, laying down again. I reach back and fumble with the tiny, damp knot at the base of my neck. The straps fall down and land softly at my sides. "Don't want to get a tan line," I explain softly.

Conrad continues to rub the smooth, slippery lotion over my shoulders and back, his breathing uneven and shallow right beside my ear. His hands pause when he reaches the elastic edge of my bikini bottoms.

"Do you want to save your tan down here too?" he says, his fingers brushing the very tops of them, sending a sharp, electric shiver through my stomach.

"Hmm. You're right, I want to be one colour all over. Do you mind?"

"N-no," he says, the word a soft exhalation. He slides my bikini bottoms down, the cool fabric easing down my hips, past my thighs, until they are completely off and resting in a small heap by my feet, leaving me fully exposed on the sun-warmed deck.

He continues the rubdown; the cool, slippery lotion contrasting against my hot skin. His hand moves methodically, deliberately, until he reaches the very top of my now-exposed butt cheeks. He doesn't skip them; instead, he gently massages the soft, curved flesh there, the movement slow and sure, a deliberate violation of the boundary of sunscreen application. A loud, aching moan escapes my throat, muffled slightly by the towel. He works the lotion all the way down the back of my thigh, reaching my calves and ankles.

"All done," he says, his voice a pure, rough gravel that vibrates with suppressed urgency.

The air is thick with the scent of coconut sunscreen and salt. I slowly turn over to lie on my back, raising both hands to shield my eyes from the sudden glare of the sun. The motion pulls my torso taut and causes my body to tighten deliciously. The movement is calculated: my entire naked front body is now fully exposed to his gaze, a silent, blazing invitation.

His eyes drop immediately, raking down my length. The sight of his gaze following the contours of my body–from the slope of my neck down to the triangle where the bikini bottoms were moments ago–makes the skin on my abdomen tighten even more. He doesn't move, just kneels there, his hand resting on the towel beside my hip, his knuckles brushing my skin.  I can feel the heat of his gaze as a thousand phantom touches–it burns, a wave of pure heat that has nothing to do with the sun. His jaw is clenched, and in my periphery, I see him visibly straining against his swimming shorts.

"Well?" I whisper, letting the question hang in the thick air, my voice barely audible above the gentle slap of the waves against the hull.

Conrad kneels in front of me, his shadow falling over my stomach. He squeezes more lotion onto his hands and starts his second tour. He begins on my shins, rubbing the lotion in with firm, slow circles, then moves up my legs, the pads of his fingers brushing tantalizingly close to my most sensitive skin, completely bypassing my inner thighs. I gasp softly as his thumb grazes my hip bone, sending a jolt of pleasure through me.

He moves up, his hands spreading the cool, slick barrier over my flat stomach, tracing the curve of my ribs. Again, he is a master of exquisite torture: he moves around the soft swell of my breasts, bypassing them entirely, and finishes the application on my chest and shoulders.

By the end of his ministrations, I am a writhing, desperate mess. My entire body is slick and gleaming–partly with the heat of the sun, partly with the film of lotion, and overwhelmingly with sweat from the anticipation and the intensity of his touch. My breath is coming in shallow, quick bursts, and my skin feels hypersensitive, begging for a touch that is more than just sunscreen.

His breath is hot on my neck as he kneels over me. "Look at you," Conrad murmurs, his eyes sweeping over my exposed body. "You are so fucking beautiful." His gaze isn't just seeing; it's consuming, heavy and thorough.

"Belly, do you trust me?"

I shiver violently, though the sun is blazing down on the deck. The memory of the last time he asked that question flashes through my mind–the sudden, intense rush of pleasure that left me dizzy. My heart is pounding against my ribs; a trapped bird desperate to escape. My stomach clenches with a mixture of terrified excitement and desperate anticipation. I just nod, unable to find my voice.

Conrad walks over to the picnic basket. I hear the slight rustle of fabric as he unwraps the scarf that's tied around the handle. He returns and kneels beside me again, his presence immediately blocking the sun. He gently wraps the soft fabric over my eyes, pulling it tight enough to completely plunge me into darkness.

"Stop me at any time, okay? At any point," he murmurs right next to my ear. His hot breath sends a cascade of goosebumps down my arm before he places a gentle kiss on the tip of my ear.

I hear him rummaging through the cooler, and the sound of ice being shaken, before he settles beside me again, his body covering mine. The heat radiating from his skin is immediate and powerful, mixed with the blinding warmth of the sun on my legs.

"It's gonna be a little cold, baby," Conrad whispers, his breath warm and sweet against my ear.

I wonder what he can possibly mean, but the answer comes instantly: a sudden, shocking coldness hits the sensitive skin of my neck. It feels sharp and small, definitely an ice cube. The sudden chill is jolting, making me gasp and arch my back. But as quickly as the cold has come, it's removed, immediately followed by the searing heat of Conrad's mouth. His hot tongue licks and sucks the spot where the ice was, creating a thrilling, dizzying contrast of temperature that makes my entire body tense with pleasure.

The anticipation in the darkness is overwhelming; I can't see, so my hearing is amplified–the tinkling click of the ice against the plastic cooler; the wet, sliding sound of his mouth on my skin. I feel the ice drag slowly down my collarbone, leaving a trailing path of freezing moisture, followed by the immediate, wet heat of his suction. A deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure rumbles in my chest; a sound I barely recognise as my own.

Then, the cold descends lower as he places a tiny, sharp cube right onto the peak of my left breast. I cry out; a strangled sound that is swallowed by the open air. The ice melts quickly, the drop of cold water rolling down my skin toward my ribs. Before the water gets far, his mouth descends. He sucks hard on my nipple, the sudden, extreme temperature change making the tip intensely sensitive. He alternates–the freezing point of the ice, then the consuming heat of his mouth, licking and teasing the tight, erect peak until a deep, aching throbbing starts in my core.

I am completely lost; a writhing, helpless mess on the sun-drenched deck. My hands grip the towel beneath me, my nails digging into the soft cotton.

Conrad continues his deliberate torment. The trail of coldness and heat moves lower, tracing a line down my abdomen. I feel the sharp, tiny cold of the ice hit the center of my stomach, followed immediately by the slick, hot pressure of his mouth and tongue. The shocking contrast makes my stomach clench and spasm, pulling a sharp breath past my lips.

His hands slide down my sides and settle on my hips. He gently parts my legs, opening me further to the sun and to him. I hear the faint click of the ice against the plastic one final time. A moment later, I feel his weight shift, and then the most intense sensation I have ever felt: his hot, wet mouth finds me, and the lingering, shocking coldness of the ice on his tongue hits my most sensitive spot.

He immediately begins a possessive rhythm, the contrast of heat and cold sharp and electrifying. His suction is deep and commanding, pulling at my very centre, and I can feel the smooth, persistent texture of his tongue tracing paths around and around. Then, a finger slides in, cool and knowing, and begins to press and stroke inward, finding the spot deep inside me that makes my breath hitch. The dual sensation is overwhelming; his mouth is a hot, wet vacuum pulling all the sensation to the surface, while his finger establishes a deliberate, slow pump deep inside, stretching me and building a powerful internal pressure with every stroke.

I let out a breathless cry; one pure, sustained sound of dizzying release that is immediately swallowed by the quiet air. His rhythm is intense and relentless, combining the scalding heat of his lips with the pinpoint precision of that cold, teasing edge. The lingering ice is an arrow of pure sensation, driving me higher and higher with every targeted contact. I arch my back against the towel, my body suddenly liquid, every nerve ending pulled taut and singing. The world shrinks to the feeling of his mouth, the hot sun on my bare skin, and the dizzying, repeated shock of pleasure that makes my vision go white. I grip the edge of the towel beneath me, my knuckles white, lost in the overwhelming tide of sensation.

He gently takes the scarf off, and the sudden return of the bright sunlight is startling. I blink rapidly, my eyes adjusting, and realise I have tears in my eyes–a mix of intense release, sunlight, and the overwhelming emotion of the moment.

Conrad's face is right above mine, his eyes soft with affection and concern. He gently wipes the tears away from my temples and cheeks with his thumbs, his touch slow and reassuring. "You did so well, baby," he murmurs, kissing my cheeks repeatedly. "It's okay, I've got you."

He slides down to rest beside me, pulling me tenderly onto his chest. He buries his face in my hair, pressing a long, warm kiss to the top of my head. His fingers thread lightly through the damp strands at the base of my neck, then trail slowly down my spine in a soothing, hypnotic rhythm.

He doesn't rush the silence. He continues to stroke my face, letting me fully come down from the high. He then carefully gathers my bikini bottoms and slides them back up my legs, smoothing my white linen shorts back over my body. He retrieves my tangled hair tie and gently fixes my ponytail, restoring a sense of order. He pours us two cups of icy lemonade from the cooler, handing one to me. I gulp the cold liquid gratefully, the sweetness grounding me.

After we've both finished our drinks, he goes to the cabin below deck and returns with a soft, thick blanket, pulling it over both of us as we lie on the warm deck. I immediately cuddle into him, resting my head against his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. His arm wraps tight around me as he presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, his fingers tracing slow, calming patterns on my shoulder.

-

Conrad

The late afternoon sail back to the harbour is quiet and easy. Belly is asleep, nestled securely against my side, the salt and sun heavy on her skin. I hold the steering wheel at the helm loosely with one hand, watching the coastline approach and feeling an overwhelming sense of contentment. 

When we dock, I gently wake her. The moment her feet hit the familiar dock planks, she’s back to being bright-eyed and buzzing with renewed energy. We arrive back at the beach house to find it already smelling incredible. Mom and Jeremiah have prepared a proper, beautiful birthday dinner. The dining table is set with flickering candles and fresh-cut flowers from the garden.

The dinner is loud and full of easy laughter. Steven and Taylor spend most of the meal bickering playfully, their voices ringing cheerfully off the high ceilings, and Mom keeps passing me extra servings of pie. Laurel is beside Mom, her head thrown back in laughter at something Jere just whispered. Belly sits next to me, her hand resting casually on my thigh beneath the table. Every time I glance at her, her eyes are shining. The air feels warm and golden, vibrating with the collective love in the room. This is it–the comfort, the noise, the feeling of being exactly where we belong.

After the plates are cleared, the party moves to the living room for cake. The night winds down naturally. Everyone hugs Belly and heads up to bed, leaving the two of us alone on the porch swing, the sound of the ocean a constant, steady soundtrack.

"Best birthday ever," she murmurs, leaning her head on my shoulder.

We sit there, wrapped around each other tightly, the sounds of the ocean and our steady heartbeats the only things left in the world.

Chapter Text

Belly

The next couple of weeks blur into the kind of perfect, sun-drenched memory I know I'll keep forever. It’s a cycle of swimming, reading, and those quiet, stolen moments with Conrad that make the entire house feel like it's just the two of us.

The only person not fully enchanted by the slowness of the summer is Taylor. The charm of the beach–the quiet evenings, the reading time, the gentle routine–is starting to wear off.

"This is great, Belly," she sighs, dramatically flipping over on her beach towel, sending a small cloud of sand into the air. "But my pulse rate is basically the same as a clam's. It's the Fourth of July next week. We need a party."

Taylor, being Taylor, doesn't just wish for it; she strategises for it. She decides the best approach is through the heart of fellow party enthusiast Jeremiah.

She finds him later that afternoon, "studying" on the sun porch with a stack of old surf magazines. I trail in behind her, settling quietly onto a large floor pillow. Taylor immediately drops into the chair across from him, leaning forward conspiratorially.

"Okay, Jeremy. Operation Fourth of July Blowout is a go," she whispers.

Jeremiah doesn't look up. "Taylor, my mom already said no. You know she gets stressed about the mess."

"Exactly! Which is why we're not asking for a 'party.' We're asking for a 'classic Cousins Beach traditional celebration,' emphasis on the tradition part. We need to frame it as a crucial bonding opportunity for the kids, for Susannah's peace of mind." Taylor holds up two fingers. "You handle the logistics–you promise you'll clean up the yard, you promise the music is controlled." She puts a finger down with a gleeful smile, "And I'll handle the emotional manipulation."

Jeremiah finally lowers his magazine, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Emotional manipulation? Like what?"

Taylor winks. "I’ll mention how good it would be for Conrad to unwind before the summer ends. You mention how much your dad used to love the fireworks. It's a two-pronged attack. You in?"

Jeremiah tosses the magazine aside. "Fine. But I get to be the DJ, and you have to promise to dance with Steven for at least one slow song."

"Deal," Taylor says, snapping her fingers.

I shift on my pillow, pushing my hair out of my eyes. "You guys need to empty the recycling bin before you start asking. Susannah hates it when that overflows."

Taylor and Jeremiah look at each other, then back at me.

"She's right," Jeremiah admits. "Solid intel, Bells."

"Now, where does Susannah keep the nice napkins? We need to look responsible," Taylor says, grabbing my arm and hauling me up. "Come on, lieutenant. Time to gather supplies.”

-

They corner the moms the following afternoon while they’re in the middle of a serious game of Mahjong. The smooth click of the tiles and the soft hum of their concentration fills the sunlit porch. Jeremiah is all charm and puppy-dog eyes, his grin wide and disarming, while Taylor lays out the sophisticated, low-key nature of the proposed event.

The negotiation is classic Fisher-Conklin family politics with a dash of fierce Jewel determination. Mom and Susannah go back and forth, their hands hovering over the carved tiles, arguing less with them and more with the principle of the thing: the noise, the sand, the inevitable chaos.

"Mom, it's not a frat party," Jeremiah insists, leaning over the table. "It's going to be a mature, intimate Fourth of July get-together. Think artisanal lemonade and sparklers, not kegs and bonfires."

Taylor jumps in, folding her hands neatly. "Exactly. We've even created a designated 'Sand Zone' outside the porch. No one is allowed to track sand past the perimeter. I swear, on my entire Dior Glow face palette–it’s limited edition.”

Susannah taps a tile thoughtfully, the corners of her mouth ticking upward. "I appreciate the zone, Taylor, but the sound? I don't want the music so loud that it vibrates the pictures off the wall."

"I've got the sound covered," Jeremiah promises. "And headphones only after 11 PM. It's a silent disco after midnight, promise."

Mom just chuckles, shaking her head. "You two are entirely too smooth. I remember when your biggest negotiation was getting five more minutes past curfew, and now it's designated sand zones."

Finally, they land on a compromise.

"Absolutely not an all-out bash," Susannah declares, placing her hand firmly on her Mahjong tile. "It has to be a small crowd–just a few people from the club. And here’s the most important rule," she warns, looking directly at Taylor. "The house has to be absolutely spotless before Laurel and I wake up the following morning. No evidence of a party when we come downstairs for our coffee. Deal?"

Jeremiah and Taylor immediately shout, "Deal!"

The party is on. Now, we just have to figure out how to throw a small, controlled gathering with Steven and Jeremiah in charge of the guest list. I have a feeling the "spotless" clause is going to be the biggest challenge.

Taylor, having accepted the limits of the guest list, immediately pivots to maximum effort on aesthetics. "If it's not going to be an all-out bash, we'll make it all-out with a theme!" she declares. We eventually settle on a retro theme party–a nod to the past as we bring in the farewells for Taylor and me finishing high school this year.

Taylor finds a new purpose. She spends two days raiding thrift stores for forgotten treasures: vinyl records, neon signs, and terrible, glorious '80s polyester clothes. The house is slowly being taken over by cascades of string lights and posters of bands I barely recognise.

The day of the party, I’m running around the living room, trying to tape up some iridescent, shimmering fringe near the window, when the screen door bursts open, hitting the frame with a violent clap.

Conrad stands there, his face pale and serious, scrubbed clean of the easy summer happiness. He's not even breathing hard from running; he's just radiating a tense, vibrating energy that makes the air feel thin.

"Transfer results are in," he declares, his voice tight.

My heart leaps into my throat, instantly forgetting about streamers and clean counters. I drop the roll of tape, and it clatters loudly on the hardwood floor. I follow him outside, where the quiet sound of the waves feels less oppressive than the enclosed house, but the air still feels impossibly heavy.

We stop by the outdoor shower, the heat of the afternoon sun beating down on us. Conrad pulls out his phone, his hands shaking visibly as he opens his email. I stand next to him, my body pressed close to his hip, biting my fingernails. The quiet anticipation is a frantic, buzzing thing between us.

He goes through them in a tense, deliberate silence.

Stanford first. He clicks the link, and his broad shoulders seem to deflate an inch as he reads the screen. "I got in," he whispers, a stunned, disbelieving look on his face.

Next, Harvard. A small, incredulous laugh escapes him. "I got in."

He scrolls to the last and most important one. Johns Hopkins. He clicks the last notification, and his whole face instantly floods with light. The tension snaps like a taught rubber band. A grin so wide and genuine it makes my heart ache spreads across his features.

He gets accepted into all three programs. 

He looks up at me, his hazel eyes bright and completely unburdened. He lets out a loud, whooping yell, throwing his head back toward the clear sky, a raw, pure sound of relief. He shoves the phone into his pocket and simply crushes me in a hug, lifting me clean off the ground.

"You did it, Conrad!" I scream, relief and pride surging through me so strongly that tears prick my eyes.

He laughs; a full, ringing sound, and spins me around once, twice; our laughter mixing with the sound of the ocean. My feet lift off the warm patio stones, the sudden rush of air making me dizzy. The scent of his clean shirt and sea salt envelops me as he presses his face into my neck, his entire body shaking with the force of his happiness.

He sets me down, his hands cupping my face. His eyes are bright, unshadowed, and focused entirely on me.

"We did it," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Now," he says, pulling me in for a long, triumphant kiss that tastes like victory and the whole summer put together. "We have something to really celebrate tonight."

-

Conrad

The house is transformed. Taylor has outdone herself. The living room glows with the softly coloured disco lights. There are lava lamps bubbling on every surface, and the air smells like cheap punch and teen spirit.

Belly walks up to me, already laughing, and hands me a bottle of beer. She's wearing a burnt-orange long-sleeved crop top that hugs her midriff and a patterned mini-skirt in shades of cream and brown. She looks incredible–pure, vibrant '70s glam. I'm in a cream polo shirt with broad maroon and thin gold stripes across the chest, paired with rust-colored pants. We look like we just stepped out of a time capsule.

The party is in full swing. The house hums with a perfect energy–just the right amount of people without being overwhelming. The half a dozen disco balls catch the reflections of the glossy vinyl records taped haphazardly on the walls, and the music is loud enough to be a warm blanket over the conversation.

I lean against the doorframe, watching the scene unfold. A sense of weightless exhilaration still bubbles in my chest; the transfer acceptance letters are real. I still can’t believe I’ve gotten accepted into all three colleges. The choice is a no-brainer–the best medical program in the country and a short distance from Belly. I know she's been trying to play it cool, not to put any pressure on me, but I can read the hope in her eyes every time I mention Johns Hopkins. The future, for the first time in a long time, isn't a terrifying question mark; it's a certainty cast in clean, bright lines.

The news of my college choice is too big, too foundational for a hurried announcement. I don't want to just yell it over the music; I want to tell her when she's completely focused on me. I want the moment to be just ours, a private start to our new, shared life. I pull my phone from my pocket, my mind racing with an idea.

A few minutes later, a loud burst of laughter nearby jolts me back to the party.

Across the room, Jeremiah and Cam are dancing around each other, their movements loose and playful, their energy electric, but their eyes are clearly locked, and they are very much into each other. It makes me smile; my brother looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

But my gaze always snaps back to her. I can’t keep my eyes off Belly as she plays a round of beer pong outside. She's dazzling like this, confident and beautiful, completely in her element; her hair bouncing with every excited giggle that carries faintly into the room.

Then, out of nowhere, Taylor and Steven spontaneously launch into a ridiculous, over-the-top, choreographed dance routine to a Miley Cyrus song, and everyone bursts into applause. Amidst the chaos, Belly and I lock eyes across the room, and we both break into wide, shared laughter at the sheer absurdity of Steven’s flailing moves.

The noise is suddenly too much. The blare of the music and the high pitch of everyone else's laughter press against my skull. I feel the need to just have a private moment with her away from the frenzy. And as soon as the thought forms, I realise: this is it. This quiet moment is the perfect window for the reveal. I give a small jerk of my head toward the patio door. She gives me a soft smile in acknowledgement, and within a minute, we both slip out the back, walking down to the dock together. The sudden drop in volume is a palpable relief.

We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out at the water. The dock wood is rough and familiar beneath my feet, and the ocean is dark and quiet; a deep, breathing contrast to the chaotic party noise we’ve left behind.

Belly breaks the silence first, her voice soft. "I can't believe it's been a year since our first kiss."

I put my arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. Her skin is still warm from the dance floor. "It feels like a hundred years and yesterday, all at once." I turn my head, my chin resting lightly on her hair. "I don't miss the drama. I don't miss the guessing games."

I pause, letting the weight of the moment, and the simple truth of it, settle over us. "But I'm still grateful for it all. It led us here. To right now."

She sighs, a sound of perfect contentment. "It’s just so easy now, isn't it? Everything used to feel like a fight, like we were constantly missing each other. Now... it just feels like home."

I shift, turning to face her fully, putting my hands on her hips. "You are home, Belly. No matter where my mail goes next year, this is where I land." I reach up and gently run my thumb over the cool, familiar metal of the infinity necklace she never takes off, tracing its outline.

She covers my hand with hers, pressing my thumb firmly against the infinity symbol. Her smile deepens, becoming soft and utterly secure. "I know," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant thump of the bass. "I always knew."

I lean down, meeting her in a gentle, quiet kiss that holds the weight of all our history. It's a sweet, certain confirmation.

She smiles, her eyes bright in the moonlight, then reaches up and touches my cheek, her touch feather-light, yet grounding. "We have to go back to the party, though. I think Jeremiah is trying to teach Cam the worm."

I laugh, leaning in for another quick, firm kiss that promises more later. "Alright, but first, a quick victory dance. You and me.”

Belly laughs, shaking her head. "There's no music out here!”

"Actually," I say, pulling back slightly, a smile playing on my lips. I pull my phone out of my pocket, open it up to Spotify, and hold it up for her to see the title: 108 minutes to you.

She peers at the screen. "One hundred and eight minutes? What is this?"

"It’s a mix," I explain, my voice low and earnest. "The exact length of the average drive from Johns Hopkins to your house.” I let my words sink in. Belly’s eyes snap from the tracklist to mine, their wide, sudden brightness confirming that she understands. Told you the choice was a no-brainer, Belly.

She doesn’t speak, but her eyes widen. I forge ahead, "It’s for your first few drives back and forth," I explain, my voice low. "I know how much you need the right music for a long drive. And now you know exactly how far away I am when you press play."

She looks down at my phone, quickly tracing the familiar song titles–our history in a tracklist. The names of the bands and tracks are small, vibrant reminders of nights by the pool and shared headphones. "Conrad," she whispers, her fingers hovering near the screen. The weight of the gesture–and the certainty of our future together–hangs heavy and beautiful in the salt-scented air.

I quickly hit play, then lock the phone and place it safely on the bench behind us. "Now," I say, pulling her into my arms, the sudden shift in atmosphere making my heart thump hard against my ribs. "We have music."

I slide my hands around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest. Her arms wrap around my neck, and we start to sway; a slow, intimate dance under the vast, quiet expanse of the dark sky. The rough, familiar wood of the dock is the only thing beneath our feet, grounding us in the moment. The fabric of her top is soft beneath my palms, and I breathe in the familiar, intoxicating scent of her perfume mixed with sea salt and the faint trace of party sweat.

I close my eyes, just feeling her: the perfect, snug weight of her body against mine. This is what winning feels like. Not just getting into three top college programs, but standing here, holding the only person who makes the chaos of the world make sense. The memory of the acceptance letters and the worry of the last few months fades entirely, replaced by the profound, deep-seated belief that we are going to be okay. We’re stable. We have a future.

I press a soft kiss into her temple. The slow, silent dance on the dock, illuminated only by the distant yellow glow of the party lights, is better than any celebration inside.

-

Hours later, after a frenzied cleaning session, the house is silent. We’re tucked into bed in my room, the windows open to the cool night air. The sheets are tangled around our legs, and the scent of the ocean is heavy in the darkness. We lie facing each other, the remnants of the party far away.

Belly reaches up and runs her fingers lightly along the sharp line of my jaw, her eyes soft with admiration. “I’m so proud of you, Conrad,” she murmurs.

I lean in, and we kiss–a long, slow, grateful kiss that doesn't demand anything but acknowledgment. It's the kind of kiss that seals promises. The kiss deepens, and the soft mood quickly turns heated. Our clothes are quickly dispatched to the floor, and the low, urgent sounds of skin against sheets fill the dark room.

Belly pulls back, her breath catching. Her eyes, bright even in the darkness, hold a mischievous challenge. “So, I was thinking… surely, getting accepted into all three medical programs counts for more than two hundred correct flashcard questions?”

My pulse instantly picks up, the blood rushing through me as the memory of her words from our intense study session hits me. And for two hundred, I’ll taste you, baby. Her message is clear, and the effect on my cock is immediate.

I gently frame her face in my hands, trying to hold onto my control. “Belly, you don’t have to.”

“Let me show you how proud I am of you,” she says, the words a low promise.

She shifts, moving over me with a determined grace. Her hair sweeps across my chest, and the next moment, her mouth is on me–hot, tight, and utterly thrilling. She works with a slow, building expertise that quickly erodes any remaining thought in my mind, replacing it with a singular, fierce need. I grip the sheets, my body arching instinctively to meet her.

The sensation is too much, too sharp, too fast. Just as the feeling crests, I use the last bit of control I have left, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her up and back.

“I need to be inside you.”

I flip her over in one quick, practiced motion, so she’s now beneath me, soft and gasping. I reach for the familiar foil packet on the bedside table, quickly tearing it open. The weight of our need is heavy and immediate as I slide on the condom.

I brace myself above her, meeting her eyes for one intense, shared moment, and then I push in, finding the deep, hot welcome of her body. Her legs immediately wrap around my waist, pulling me close, and the silent rhythm begins. It's a different kind of dance, but it feels like the same familiar rhythm from the dock earlier–slow, certain, and utterly ours–a shared celebration under the quiet protection of the dark summer night.

Chapter Text

Belly

A week later, the excitement of the party has well and truly died down. The house is quiet again, though much emptier. Taylor left to spend the rest of the summer with her mother, and Steven decided to head back to campus early–something about getting a head start on his engineering research. Jeremiah spends all his time either working his shift at the beach club or hanging out with Cam, their newly minted relationship keeping him happily busy and distracted.

I spend my days in a simple, gentle rhythm–mostly with Conrad, or when he's out surfing, enjoying the quiet company of Mom and Susannah.

Today is different. Mom and Susannah are on an extended antiquing trip–a whole-day mission that will probably involve scones and several thousand dollars' worth of unwanted ceramic birds. Conrad is out for his morning surf, so I have the house blissfully to myself. I relish it, because it’s been so full of noise and shared space lately. The quiet is a welcome, deep breath.

I have a slow morning, eating breakfast lazily while I catch up on some reading. After a leisurely swim in the pool, I settle onto the kitchen table after a quick lunch, a mug of hot tea warming my hands as I tackle a crossword puzzle. I’m halfway through 14-Across when the back door opens.

I don't look up, expecting Conrad’s usual loud entrance. "Hi, how was it?"

He grunts in response–a sound that doesn't fit the triumphant mood I expected. I look up and see him in the doorway. He’s soaking wet, wetsuit off, and he's limping a little, clearly favouring his left leg as he walks ahead.

"What's wrong?"

"Just a wipeout," he mutters, already hobbling past the dining room. "Got cut by a fin."

He's moving slowly, and his face is tight with controlled pain. He reaches the base of the stairs, his hand already gripping the banister for support.

"Bad?" I call after him.

"No, not too bad," he reassures, but his voice is strained and too thin to be convincing.

"Are you okay? Do you need help?" I call again, but he doesn't respond, and I can hear his faint grunts as he makes his laboured way up the stairs.

I drop my mug onto the table and run to the stairs. My stomach clenches. There are small, dark splatters of blood marking the pale wood of the steps. Panicking, I rush up the stairs, following the trail.

I find him in the bathroom. He's straddling the large porcelain bathtub, one leg dangling gingerly over the edge, the other braced on the floor. His head is bowed, his back hunched, and sweat beads on his forehead. He looks pale, and his breathing is shallow.

"Oh my God, Conrad."

"It's already stopped bleeding," he says, but his voice is ragged, and I can see his grip on the white towel pressed to his thigh is white-knuckled.

"O-okay, just keep putting pressure on it," I say, trying to force calm into my voice, even though my mind is racing. "I'm gonna find something to clean it."

I start rifling through the drawers beneath the sink, trying to keep my cool while my hands shake. I finally find a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a roll of gauze. Conrad lets out a low, shaky whimper of pain.

"All right," I say, pulling the materials out. I straddle the bathtub right in front of him, planting my feet on the tile, then scoot closer.

"Let go of the towel."

Conrad loosens his grip, and I gently peel the damp terrycloth away. He hisses as the fabric pulls slightly. The wound is a deep, gaping gash, angry red, and looks pretty bad.

"Okay, okay. Shit." I turn the extendable tap on, making sure the water isn’t too hot, and then gently begin to rinse the cut, and the rest of his leg.

Conrad groans; a continuous, low sound.

"I'm sorry, okay, I have to," I apologise, my voice catching in my throat, as I go back over his thigh with the water. I grab the bottle of peroxide. "Ready?"

"Yeah," he manages, wincing.

I pour the hydrogen peroxide all over the wound. The liquid fizzes aggressively as it meets the blood, and he doubles over in pain, letting out a loud, strangled groan. His entire body slumps forward, and he drops his full weight onto my shoulder.

He is panting, the air heaving in and out of his lungs, the sound rough and wet directly against my ear. His breath smells of metallic blood and sweat, and the warmth of it blooms across my skin. I'm fighting to keep my hands steady, to focus only on the slick, dark cut, but the raw, vulnerable sounds he’s making–the ragged gasps and low, guttural groans–are a terrifying mirror of the sounds he makes when we are completely undone by each other. A wave of sickening heat rushes through me, followed instantly by a spike of guilt. He’s in genuine pain, trusting you, and you’re having dirty, distracting thoughts. I shake my head–a sharp, internal movement–and force my gaze back to the wound, now meticulously swabbing the edges with gauze.

"Don't be such a baby," I try to inject some lightness, some normalcy, into the situation. "It’s barely a scratch." But my voice is thin and strained, completely lacking any bite or conviction.

His eyes are still squeezed shut, his face buried in the curve of my neck. "Uh-huh," he manages, the sound a vibrating whimper that sends a familiar, unwelcome jolt straight through the core of me.

"Okay." I finally press a clean, thick pad of gauze onto the wound and begin to wrap it securely. "Here we go, deep breaths. Almost done."

As I wrap the final, tight layers of bandage around his thigh to anchor the dressing, Conrad never stops panting–a ragged rhythm that marks the passage of time. My fingers, surprisingly steady, trace the smooth cotton gently as I secure the final knot. The whole length of his leg is warm and solid beneath my touch, and before I realise it they start tracing a line past the cotton and up towards his inner thigh. Conrad lets out a loud breath and I immediately pull back my treacherous wandering fingers.

"You see? All better." My voice comes out as a faint exhalation, and I curse the way it catches, sounding embarrassingly breathless.

Conrad slowly, excruciatingly lifts his head from my shoulder, his wet hair–heavy with seawater and sweat–brushing a cold, slick path against my cheek.

He is so close I can feel the radiating heat of his body. If I tilted my head even a fraction of an inch, our mouths would collide. His breath ghosts my lips–hot, shallow, and smelling faintly of salt and the deep ocean–a familiar, intoxicating scent.

I am momentarily breathless, a sharp gasp trapped in my chest. He looks devastatingly, impossibly handsome. His hair is soaked through, the strands almost black and clinging to his forehead, droplets gathering at the tips of the locks before spiraling down his temples. The golden, late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the bathroom window catches his damp skin, making the sculpted muscles of his bare chest and shoulders glow like polished bronze. The sight of his expanse of taut, wet skin is a dizzying, exquisite assault on my senses. His green eyes, usually turbulent and guarded, are currently softened by pain and a sharp focus on me, catching the sun like pieces of sea glass. He is looking at me with an intensity that seems to slow the very passage of time.

His voice is a husky rasp, barely audible. "Thank you."

I manage a sound back that is less than a whisper. "Sure."

We are suspended there, a bubble of charged air between us, staring intensely at each other, as if moving through syrup. I am simply drinking him up with my eyes, cataloguing every detail: the slight tremor in his jaw, the curve of his lower lip. I feel the magnetic pull–a need to cross that final, tiny distance–and I’m about to lean in when Conrad’s rough voice snaps the spell.

"Belly?"

"Yeah?" I reply, still dazed and fighting the fading image of his lips on mine.

"Can you help me up? I'm gonna take a nap."

I’m barely listening, my attention still completely entranced by the soft, full curve of his mouth, and words tumble out of my own without permission. "You've lost a lot of blood. I just feel like you shouldn't be sleeping."

"That's for concussions," he murmurs, and the sound of his low, weary voice is doing all sorts of undeniable, confusing things to my insides.

"Okay," I concede, the fight leaving me in a soft breath.

He makes a move, and I think he’s finally leaning in to close the distance between our lips, but he’s only leaning in to brace himself on my shoulder. A deep groan is ripped from his chest as he grunts, wincing, and manages to get to his feet. He begins to limp away, but I notice he’s still soaking wet, leaving a trail of shimmering puddles on the tile floor.

“Wait!”

He halts, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his shoulders slumping with fatigue.

“Y-you’re dripping everywhere. At least let me help you into some dry clothes.”

Conrad offers only a slight nod, too tired and sore to mount an argument. I guide him gently, his weight heavy and familiar, pressing against my arm. The warmth of his skin and the solid muscle beneath sends a surprising, sharp jolt through me, momentarily eclipsing the worry with an unintended rush of physical awareness. I steer him toward the padded bench next to the bathtub.

I slip into his room, grabbing a clean, soft T-shirt and a pair of boxers. My movements are frantic, propelled by a nervous energy. I stop by the linen closet, retrieving a large, fluffy towel, the cotton warm from being stored. I take a deep, shaky breath, trying to slow the accelerated thumping of my heart before heading back into the humid bathroom.

When I return, he's leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closed, his breathing still shallow and ragged. He looks completely wrecked and completely beautiful. I walk over to him, and he automatically reaches out for his clothes. “I can do it,” he rasps.

“Will you just let me take care of you, for fuck’s sake?” I say, the frustration edged with something softer–a yearning to tend to him.

He swallows hard, the movement visible in his throat, and nods. His rigid pride finally melts away, drowned by sheer exhaustion.

I take the towel and gently place it over his wet hair, beginning to rub and massage his head. The simple act of friction produces a low, satisfied groan of appreciation from him; a sound that vibrates deep in his chest and sends a warmth spreading through my palms.

Focus, Belly.

I’m fighting a desperate battle to keep this process chaste and strictly medical, but the sight of him–so vulnerable, so trusting, so close–and the soft, appreciative sounds he’s making are shattering my resolve. I meticulously dry the broad expanse of his chest, the flat planes of his stomach, his strong back, and then work my way down his solid, powerful legs, my fingertips grazing his warm, damp skin with every pass of the towel.

I move to tug his wet swimming shorts down, and he winces again, the sound a sharp inhale of breath. I proceed with excruciating slowness, being careful not to jostle his injured thigh. The wet fabric of the shorts, heavy and cool, clings tenaciously to his skin.

"I'm sorry," Conrad says very sheepishly, opening his eyes and meeting my gaze.

I immediately assume he’s apologising for being a burden; for needing me to play nurse. I start to appease him, my fingers working the elastic waistband, trying to peel the fabric away. "Don't be silly, you just got hurt. It's fine, it's–"

But the true reason for his apology slams into me a second later.

As I guide the damp, heavy fabric down and over his hips, I see a very prominent ridge pushing aggressively against his wet boxers. His arousal is hard and undeniable, a firm monument to the shocking intimacy of the last ten minutes.

"I'm sorry," he says again, his voice cracking with a mix of embarrassment and raw desire. "It just... has a mind of its own."

A small, choked laugh of pure relief escapes me. The coiled tension that has bound me finally breaks, not into chaos, but into shared, embarrassed recognition. I'm not the only one who's been riding the razor's edge of desire and panic. I realise, with a sudden lightness, that he felt the magnetic pull too. He always feels it too.

Conrad closes his eyes and winces again, this time clearly from embarrassment, not the gash in his leg.

"I'm sorry, Conrad, I’m not laughing at you," I manage, covering my mouth with a hand, the sound muffled by my fingers. "I was just... going crazy trying to keep it together when you were hurt, when I just..." I let the implication–that his vulnerability and his sounds of pain had activated something deep inside me–hang heavy in the air.

At my admission, his green eyes immediately snap open and darken. The lightness of the moment is incinerated by the rush of heat that comes back, thicker and stronger than before. My shaky laughter dies instantly; my chest tightens with a renewed, sickeningly urgent desire.

The humour is completely gone, replaced by a raw, immediate need. Our eyes simultaneously drop to his boxers, where he is still straining against the damp, thin fabric. The heat in the sunlit bathroom is suddenly suffocating, pressing us together.

I lean in, my hands reaching for the waistband of his wet boxers. My voice is low, a smoky promise that is half question, half command. "So, will you let me keep taking care of you now?"

His breathing hitches. He doesn't reply with words. His green eyes, dark and heavy with a potent mixture of relief, pain, and naked desire, give me all the consent I need.

I drop to my knees on the cool, hard tile floor.

His hands clamp down gently on my shoulders. "Wait," he says, his voice a low, tight rasp. He grabs the discarded towel draped over the bench and slides it under my knees.

I slide the clinging, damp fabric down, careful to navigate his newly bandaged thigh. The wet boxers come down quickly, revealing his hard, pulsing erection, slick with pre-come. I pause for a single, charged fraction of a second, letting the sight–and the exhilarating knowledge that I caused this–ignite a powerful, answering wave of throbbing desire deep within my core. I settle my weight onto the soft, warm towel.

I lean forward and press a gentle kiss to the velvet head of his cock. The salty taste of the ocean and the metallic tang of his arousal immediately coat my lips. I draw back fractionally, licking my lips clean. Conrad’s hands shoot down and gently tangle in my hair, guiding me; a silent, powerful request.

I place another slow, lingering kiss on the head, then my tongue darts out, swirling around him, lapping up the rest of the pre-come that’s gathered there. Conrad's eyes slam shut for a brief, shuddering second, but he quickly opens them again, his gaze intense, not wanting to miss a second of my performance.

Then, I take him in my mouth. The immediate, hot contact draws a sharp, controlled inhale from him. He takes one hand off my head to grip the edge of the bench, his knuckles white, and braces his uninjured leg on the floor, leaning back slightly to give me the space I need.

“Fuck, baby, you are so good to me.” Conrad murmurs. He immediately brings the hand that was gripping the bench back to my head, burying his fingers in my hair and giving my scalp a light, firm scratch that sends a jolt of pleasure down my spine.

I hum in gratitude; the low, pleased sound vibrating against the base of him, and I feel his hard cock twitch in my mouth.

I work slowly at first, tasting the salty ocean on his skin, focusing on keeping the noise level down in the quiet house. My focus is entirely on his pleasure–a desperate, fervent repayment for the pain and stress he's been under. I use my hands to stroke the velvety length of him, coordinating my movements with my mouth, rotating the pressure.

His breathing grows ragged and fast. A low, continuous groan starts deep in his chest, a sound so guttural it vibrates in the small room and right through my jaw. I hear him murmur my name; a broken, barely audible sound that only pushes me to work faster, harder.

The pleasure builds quickly, brutally. His hips shift restlessly on the hard bench, seeking deeper contact, a more complete friction. I focus on bringing him to the very edge, increasing the depth and speed of my ministrations. As his breathing becomes frantic, I take him deeper until he's hitting the back of my throat, forcing him to the point of no return.

His skin feels hot and stretched, slick against the wet warmth of my mouth. His fingers tighten hard in my hair, gripping rather than stroking now, and he presses down against me, his hips lifting slightly off the bench. The sensation is too much. He is right there. 

"Baby, stop, stop–" he whispers, the warning coming far too late.

He lets out a choked sound of pure, explosive release, his body arching violently off the bench as the orgasm rips through him. I hold him steady, swallowing every drop, savouring the taste of his climax.

I lean back, breathless, letting the sight of his stunned, completely surrendered face be my only reward.

Conrad runs a shaky hand through my hair, the cold moisture of his palm a sudden contrast to the heat of my scalp. His fingers trail down, stroking my cheek, his thumb finally settling on my lips, giving them a soft, gentle caress.

"Thank you," he finally manages, the two words husky with residual pleasure and exhaustion.

I lean into his touch, pressing a soft kiss into the center of his palm, closing my eyes for a brief, dizzying moment. "Let's get you dressed."

Chapter Text

Conrad

I’m still in my own bed at the beach house, the familiar weight of my duvet a comfort and the fresh scent of laundry detergent thick in the air. But something is wrong. The air is humming with an electric charge. The darkness around me is a deep, velvety canvas against which shadows move with their own agenda. I try to shift, but a dull, phantom ache pins me down; a ghost of the wound in my thigh, but worse; deeper, more pervasive. It’s not just in my leg, it’s everywhere.

I blink and then she’s there. Not emerging from the shadows, but simply present, standing beside the bed. Belly. But not Belly as I know her.

She’s wearing a crisp, starched white dress, the kind that zips tight down the front, hinting at the swell of her breasts without revealing anything beyond a severe, damningly professional curve. A small cap is perched perfectly on her dark hair, and a stethoscope hangs heavy around her neck–a symbol of absolute authority. The soft glow of my bedside lamp, usually a source of mundane comfort, now casts long, unsettling shadows in the room, making her appear taller; more imposing. She holds a syringe in one hand, the liquid inside a deep amber, glinting with a dangerous promise.

She doesn’t speak. She just looks down at me, her brown eyes dilated in the dim light, mirroring the intensity I’d seen in the bathroom earlier, but colder, more clinical. More in control. I am utterly, helplessly hers. My body feels heavy, almost paralysed, and a new, unfamiliar heat begins to bloom low in my gut, responding to her silent command.

This isn’t a dream where I can escape; this is a dream where I have to obey.

Her gaze drops, cool and clinical, moving from my face down to the sheet pooled around my waist. She doesn’t have to raise her voice above a low, steady murmur–the absolute confidence in her tone cuts through the dream haze like a scalpel.

“Sir, don’t move,” she states, the command more an accepted truth than an instruction, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need a full assessment, and I require total stillness. Any resistance will simply prolong the procedure.”

The formality of it–the cold, respectful 'Sir'–shoots through me; an immediate, searing paradox. It’s a contradiction that makes my gut clench: her absolute authority is somehow amplified by that small, polite address. You’re the boss here, Nurse, I want to admit, the thought making me dizzy with relief and submission. But I'm still your 'Sir.'

She places the syringe precisely on the nightstand, the click of the glass against the wood a small, jarring sound in the quiet room. Her hands, surprisingly bare and unsterile, move to the duvet.

“I need access,” she continues, her eyes still holding mine, those dilated black pupils seeming to drill right through my skull. With a slow, deliberate pull, she draws the sheet completely away, exposing me fully to the cool air and the judging light.

“Now, tell me where the pain is deepest. Don’t lie. I’ll know.”

The air is suddenly too cold with the sheets gone, yet the deep, agonising heat inside me is only intensifying. I can’t move, can’t deny her. She’s stripped away the cover, and with it, any pretense of control that I thought I had.

She places a hand on my bandaged thigh, the contact immediate and heavy, yet her fingers remain absolutely steady; clinical. The heat of her palm begins to soak through the cotton, a localised, internal burn that makes every nerve ending below her touch fire instantly.

“The periphery is stable,” she murmurs, her voice entirely flat; entirely professional, as if reading off a chart. Her fingers begin to explore the contours of my injury, moving with a firm, almost punishing pressure that presses deeply into the muscle. It’s an agonising, delicious friction that makes the phantom ache in my leg fire up, instantly countered by the gathering, insistent pleasure between my legs.

She lingers on my inner thigh, her exploration meticulous; her palm resting heavily, barely inches from the rigid, unmistakable evidence of her effect on me. Every small, professional adjustment of her grip–the pressure increasing, then easing, then increasing again–sends a fresh, shocking wave of heat directly to the centre of my arousal. Her focus is absolute; her face devoid of any emotion that isn’t professional duty. And her hand. Her fucking hand.

She pauses her clinical exploration and brings her gaze to me. She doesn’t have to look down at my growing ‘condition’–the tension radiating from it is its own audible frequency in the quiet room–she simply knows.

She finally lifts her hand from my thigh, and I instantly mourn the loss of contact. Her eyes–those black, dominating pools–finally move down, resting on the taut line of my erection, before snapping back up to lock onto mine. There’s a faint, almost chilling smile playing on the very edge of her mouth.

“The periphery is stable, sir.” she repeats, her voice dipping lower, the formality again hitting like a jolt of electricity. “But the source is over-pressurised. We need to release the pressure before it causes systemic damage.”

She reaches out, but not for my cock. Her fingertips brush my hand, which is still rigidly clenched against the sheet beside my hip. She doesn’t take my hand, she simply guides it–a soft, relentless pressure forcing my fingers to unclench.

“This is not a pleasure protocol,” she dictates, the warning sharp and entirely devoid of warmth. “This is treatment. I’m instructing you to apply immediate counter-pressure to the site. Use your palm, keep it firm, and focus only on the sensation. No distractions. And no moving until I tell you to. Do you understand your instructions, sir?”

The words are a direct, scorching command. Any thought of disobedience vanishes, replaced by a desperate, agonising need to comply. I feel the heat of my own palm, rough and damp, settle over the frantic, rigid length of myself.

She takes ownership of the action entirely, leaning in until the crisp, clean scent of her starched uniform–a stark contrast to the boiling heat of my skin–fills my nostrils. She’s so close, her shadow falls over my torso, and I can feel the faint, dry warmth of her breath just above my chest.

“Too fast,” she commands, her voice dropping to a low, silken rumble that resonates directly inside my ears. “Control. The aim is not release, it’s pressure management.”

She lifts her hand and places it, light as a feather and utterly paralysing, directly over my hand that’s following her instruction. She doesn’t press down, she simply rests it there, her delicate weight amplifying the agonising tension.

“Slow the friction,” she continues, her voice hypnotic; each word a slow, deliberate drop of focus. “I want long, even strokes. Feel the heat gathering beneath your palm. Focus on the ache. I need you to feel every single point of resistance before I allow you to pass it. Match your breathing to mine. In…out…steady. Now, show me your control. Show me you can take the treatment.”

Her proximity, the sheer, crushing authority in her voice, and the devastating weight of her hand guiding mine is an immediate, overwhelming sensory flood. I’m no longer an individual, I’m a reactor, completely, hopelessly surrendered to her will.

The command is impossible to maintain. The slow, dictated rhythm of friction under her hand–her light, searing weight resting over my own–has pushed the internal pressure beyond my capacity to endure. The ache has morphed from a controlled fire into a searing, uncontainable inferno.

A raw, half-choked cry tears its way out of my chest–a sound that is pure surrender, part agonising pain, part desperate, animal pleasure. It’s a failure of control, and yet, in the same instant, her hold on her own instruction seems to fracture. Her eyes flare, those black centres widening as she sees the last threads of my restraint snap.

Just as the world splinters into bright, unbearable white light, and the physical release rips through me with volcanic force, a deafening crash–the sound of the syringe finally falling off the nightstand–shatters the dream.

I wake with a violent, full-body spasm, my back arching off the mattress, and the last, ragged breath of my climax claws its way up my throat. My body is slick with sweat, my heart hammering a furious, desperate rhythm against my ribs.

I’m instantly, shamefully aware of the aftermath: the violent, sickening throb in my groin, the damp, ruined state of my shorts, and the phantom sensation of her hand still resting over mine.

My eyes fly open, darting wildly around the familiar dark of my bedroom–the scent of detergent and comfort is real, the darkness is real–and then they land on the figure sitting beside my bed.

It’s Belly.

She’s there. Not in a nurse’s uniform, but wearing the simple oversized cotton t-shirt she typically wears to bed. The book she’d been reading, a thick paperback, has fallen onto the duvet, spine up. But she isn’t looking at the book; she’s leaning forward, her face just inches from mine, those real, astonishing brown eyes wide and full of unmistakable, gut-wrenching concern.

“Conrad?” she whispers, the sound small and tight with genuine alarm. Her hand is already reaching, hovering near my forehead, her fingers hesitant. “God, you were thrashing. Are you…is your leg hurting again? Do you need more ice?”

The shame and the raw, lingering physical intensity of the dream crashes over me simultaneously. The only thing I can do is clench my teeth against the urge to groan again and frantically try to hide my ruined body under the crumpled duvet.

“It’s nothing,” I finally choke out, the word husky, muffled, and an utterly, completely dishonest betrayal of the truth. I fix my gaze on a spot just beyond her shoulder. “Just a bad dream. Go back to your book.”

I know the lie is useless. Belly doesn’t move. She just sits there, and I can feel the force of her unwavering scrutiny. A bad dream? No. The frantic, raw desperation of my reaction felt like a physical heat radiating off my skin, making the small space between us impossible to breathe in. My frantic embarrassment, the way I'm trying to hide myself, must be screaming the truth about the nature of my thrashing.

The thought hits me in a sudden, scorchingly shameful flash. She isn’t fooled. She knows this isn’t mere pain. She knows I was fighting something deeper, something private. I brace for the argument, the inevitable questioning that will expose everything.

“Your heart is pounding, Conrad,” she murmurs. Her voice isn’t alarmed; it’s the low, steady register she always uses when I shut down, and it strips away my defenses. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

I wait for her hand to grab my arm, to force me to look at her, but she doesn’t. Instead, her hand moves behind my head. Her fingers find the sweat-damp hair at the nape of my neck, and slip in, applying the lightest pressure. It’s just enough to anchor me, just enough to tell me, without words, that she isn’t fooled, and that I can’t run.

“But you don’t have to talk about it,” she continues, her voice level and her eyes locked onto my frantic, searching gaze. “Just let me hold you for a minute. Just breathe.”

The firm, cool pressure of her fingers at the base of my skull is immediate, visceral proof that I haven’t dreamed her. The touch is completely chaste, but it only amplifies the brutal, pulsing truth of my body. It’s impossible to reconcile the terrifying, thrilling “Nurse Belly” of the dream, with this soft, tender, incredibly concerned reality.

Her command–Just breathe–is the only order I can obey. I feel my chest expand on an intake of breath that shudders all the way down my body. I fight the urge to lean into her palm, to confess the whole, humiliating, arousing mess.

Talk about it? How can I? How can I tell her that the innocent and genuine care that she’s been giving me over the past few days since my accident has been twisted in my head into something so explicit, so controlling, so desperate? That the sounds I’m sure she heard me making weren’t sounds of pain, but the sound of me failing to maintain my self-control? The shame is a hot, dry coil tightening in my throat, threatening to choke the lie I’d already told.

She’s waiting. Her eyes are steady, patient, seeing the distress in my eyes but not the shameful cause. She’s giving me the space she always gives me, but this time, the space feels treacherous. To confess now would be to dump the full, ugly weight of my raw lust onto her genuine concern.

I have to put the wall back up, just for a little while. I need to let the frantic pulsing in my groin die down, let the dream images cool, before I risk sharing them. I need to categorise, analyse, and lock away the truth until it’s manageable.

I pull a second, deeper breath, consciously relaxing the knot in my shoulders under her hand. I finally meet her gaze, forcing the panic out and replacing it with the familiar, dull mask of exhaustion.

“It was bad,” I admit, my voice rougher now, propping up the lie of a nightmare. I gently slide my head out from under her fingers, breaking the contact gently. “I just…I need a minute to let it fade. I’m okay, Belly. Just need to process. I’ll tell you about it later, when I’m actually awake.”

It’s a dismissal dressed as a thoughtful promise; a necessary lie. I’ve given her the classic Conrad Fisher escape route: “later”–the place where all my difficult feelings go to die a slow, silent death.

The knot in my stomach tightens again, waiting for the inevitable, quiet disappointment in her voice, the sigh that tells me she’s heading for the door. But it doesn’t come.

“Okay,” she says, letting the acceptance sit there between us. Her hand leaves my neck but, instead of pulling away, she gently smooths the damp sheet that’s clinging to my hip. “You process. But you’re not sweating through your sheets alone.”

My heart, which had slowed down after the dream’s furious beat, gives a fresh, hard thump against my ribs, as I watch her rise, not to leave, but to grab the heavy duvet from the foot of the bed. She drapes it over the footboard, letting it cool, and then settles back down next to me, resting her head against the headboard. She picks up her book, but her eyes aren’t on the pages. They’re fixed on the dark, inky sky outside.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she repeats, and the words are a quiet, simple, non-negotiable statement of fact. “I’m just gonna be right here. When the light comes up, or if you need more ice, or if you decide you actually want to be awake enough to talk about whatever that was, I’ll be right here.”

It isn’t a challenge; it’s a compromise I hadn’t asked for and definitely do not deserve. She has accepted my silence but has also denied me my solitude. I’m safe, but utterly exposed, forced to lie next to the evidence of my shame and the object of all my desires.

I finally allow myself a slow, quiet exhale. My entire body, which had been locked rigid under my sheets, softens. I haven’t pushed her away. She hasn’t left. I nod, then slowly, deliberately, turn my head on the pillow and roll onto my side, turning my back to her. It’s a silent way of accepting her truce, a way of asking her, Please, just stay there. Just be real. I listen for the sound of her shifting, for the quiet certainty of her breathing, proving she hasn’t moved. She’s still here. Right here.

The reality of her presence is the only thing holding the fractured images of the dream at bay. I can’t move; I can’t look at her. I’m staring at the wall, but my mind is stuck in the humid, demanding heat of the fantasy.

I’d never had a dream like that before. Never. Not the raw, physical force of it, and certainly not the feeling of absolute, desperate surrender. I, Conrad Fisher, who has to be in control of everything–my grades, my emotions, my whole damn life–had, in my own head, begged for her authority. Nurse Belly, clinical and cold, forcing the truth out of me. It’s absolutely terrifying.

The shame is a brutal weight in my chest. I’m scared that even this small act of weakness–the thrashing, the gasping for air–is too much. I know what she’s thinking: He’s always holding back. He’s always breaking. And if I told her the truth about the dream; about the violent, humiliating need to be under her command, she might think I’m completely broken. That I want things she can’t give. Do I want things she can’t give?

I can’t just let it all sit there, guarding a lie. That was the real disaster–the dishonesty. She deserves better than my cowardice. I swallow past the roughness in my throat. I can’t give her the whole thing, not yet. But I can give her a piece of the truth, enough to honour her patience.

I slowly turn back, rolling onto my back. Her head is tilted against the wooden headboard, her profile soft against the window light, her eyes still fixed on the horizon.

“Belly,” I rasp.

She turns her head instantly, her eyes meeting mine without a flicker of judgement, only that familiar, searching concern that gives me the strength to forge ahead.

“It wasn’t…pain. Or a nightmare.” I manage, the confession scraping out of me. I force myself to meet her gaze, to own the humiliation. “I had a sex dream…about you.”

I pause, waiting for the disgust, the surprise, anything. But her expression doesn’t change.

“I know it sounds stupid,” I continue, feeling the flush return to my cheeks. “But I haven’t had one like that before. Not…not that intense. I just need to figure out what it means. And then, I promise, I want to tell you about it. I just need a minute to put it in a box first.”

Belly doesn’t laugh, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even pretend to be surprised. She reaches out, and this time, her hand settles gently, warmly, on the damp sheet near my shoulder.

“I get it,” she says, her voice soft but absolute. She doesn’t press for details, doesn’t try to decode my shame. She simply accepts me. “You need to make sense of it before you hand it over. That’s always been you, Conrad.”

She squeezes my shoulder lightly, her thumb tracing a reassuring circle on the sheet. “You take your time. You figure it out. I’m right here. I told you, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be awake when you are.”

It’s the most understanding response I could have asked for–a renewed promise of unconditional presence in the face of my rawest fear. The relief is immediate; a heavy weight finally dropping off my chest.

I meet her gaze, forcing the air out of my lungs in a shaky exhale, and the words, stripped of all my defenses, come out pure and true. “God, Belly,” I whisper, my voice thick with everything I can’t yet articulate, “I love you so much.”

She doesn’t try to answer with a grand statement. She just offers a faint, sure smile–the kind that holds all our history and our future. I close my eyes, the tension finally easing its brutal grip. I can breathe now.

Chapter Text

Conrad

The remaining weeks of summer settle into a rhythm that feels quiet, almost muted, after the high-wire intensity of the bathroom and my post-dream confession. The crushing tension has been replaced by profound, mutual understanding. The pressure to dissect what happened is gone; the weight lifted from my shoulders (for now), allowing Belly and I to simply be. Nothing nearly as dramatic happens again and I’m grateful to my psyche for not plaguing my mind with any more confusing dreams.

We spend our time trying to be normal, floating lazily in the pool, driving out for pizza, and taking late-night walks on the beach. It’s an intentional, slightly anxious truce with reality–a stolen, low-stakes calm where Belly gives me the patient, necessary space to process it all. But we’re also both holding our breath, enjoying the calm before the next big shift: my imminent move to Baltimore and Belly’s last year of high school.

-

I wake up in the early hours of August the 8th to the soft pressure of a hand on my shoulder, not rough or frantic like an alarm, but slow and persistent. I blink against the heavy darkness and see Belly hovering over me, fully dressed in shorts and a worn navy hoodie. Her eyes are bright, and she holds a finger to her lips.

"Get up, sleepyhead. We're going out," she whispers.

I don’t argue. I just pull on some pants and a sweatshirt, a low thrum of excitement replacing my sleepiness.

She leads me out of the house and down the dark, narrow path that leads to the old lighthouse lookout. We haven't been up here in years–not since we were kids looking for satellites. When we reach the small, circular clearing at the top, I stop and let out a soft, surprised breath.

Belly has been busy. The small, weathered stone wall ringing the lookout is draped with a single string of delicate white fairy lights that cast a soft, magical glow in the pre-dawn darkness. In the centre, she’s laid out a thick, plaid blanket over the dew-damp grass.

"Happy Anniversary," she says, her voice a little breathless, gesturing toward the blanket where a small woven basket sits waiting.

I lean down and kiss the side of her head. "Happy Anniversary, Belly," I murmur back. "You did all this?" I ask, completely stunned, looking at the soft light and the incredible view of the quiet, waking ocean below.

"This is all yours," she says, practically pushing me onto the blanket.

She opens the basket and pulls out a thermos and a neatly folded stack of foil-wrapped parcels. She pours two mugs of steaming hot cocoa (her specialty). The first thing I notice, bobbing right on top is a Junior Mint.

"I knew you wouldn't forget that," I grin, taking the mug. It’s the perfect, cool hit of peppermint and chocolate that I love, but it’s also the quiet, secret reminder of the prize I so painstakingly tried to win for her at the ring toss all those years ago.

"Never," she confirms, before handing me a parcel. "And I made these. You have to eat them while they're still warm."

I peel back the foil. Inside is a sticky, cinnamon-glazed swirl–a freshly baked roll. When I lift it, I notice how it still feels warm against my fingertips, radiating heat into the chill morning air. She must have woken up at four in the morning to get the timing of baking this right.

It isn’t a grand, sweeping gesture. It’s better. It’s thoughtful and every single detail–the mints, the early wake-up, this place, the warm, home-baked food–is about me; about us; about our long, quiet history.

“I love you,” I say, my voice thick. It’s the best anniversary gift I can imagine. I set the mug down and pull her into a long, slow kiss; the taste of mint chocolate and cinnamon lingering between us. We pull away and settle back onto the blanket, Belly fitting perfectly against my side, her read resting just below my shoulder. I wrap my arm tightly around her, my fingers stroking the soft fabric of her hoodie.

We sit in comfortable silence. The only sounds are the faint, rhythmic rush of the waves breaking far below and the occasional, cheerful call of a distant seagull. We watch the sky change. At first, it’s a heavy, deep velvet navy; star-flecked and cool. Then, slowly–almost imperceptibly–a soft, pearlescent gray bleeds into the horizon. The clouds begin to take on definition, delicate washes of lavender and rose. As the sun actually begins to lift, the colours become violent and quick–a blaze of brilliant tangerine and fiery gold that seems to pour directly onto the surface of the ocean, turning the dark water into a shimmering, incandescent ribbon. The whole scene feels impossibly vast and beautiful.

My gaze drifts from the explosion of light back to Belly, her profile soft and serene against the intense backdrop. I realise the sunrise is a perfect mirror of us. The sun had always been there; a constant, massive force, just like our feelings for each other. For years, the heavy, complicated night sky–full of timing issues, unspoken fears, and our own stubbornness–had hidden it. But it got to the point where the light couldn't be contained anymore. It broke through the layers of dark and gray until the whole sky–our whole relationship, became this vibrant, undeniable gold. It wasn't a sudden spark; it was the inevitable dawning of something that was always meant to be. I squeeze her shoulder; a profound, silent thank you for letting the sun finally rise.

-

After packing up the last remnants of the cocoa and the foil, we drive into town, the windows down, the salty air whipping through the car. We bypass the busy boardwalk and head straight for the scattered, dusty antique shops on the edge of the old village.

The air inside the main shop is thick with the scent of old wood and mothballs. We walk slowly, our shoulders brushing as we navigate the cramped aisles of forgotten furniture and brittle lace. Belly is easily distracted by old yearbooks and chipped ceramic dishes, but I’m on a specific mission.

I lead her to a glass cabinet near the back, where strange crystal animals shimmer under a weak overhead bulb. She gasps softly, recognising the display.

"Look," I murmur, pointing.

There, nestled beside a porcelain swan, is a small, clear glass unicorn. It isn't exactly like the one she already owns–the one I’d bought her years ago when we were kids, and that she always keeps on her dresser. This one is slightly taller, its horn a little more crooked, its stance more defiant. But it’s unquestionably a mate.

I call the shop owner over. "We'll take this one," I say.

Belly watches the transaction, her expression radiating warmth. When the owner hands me the bagged unicorn, I immediately give it to her.

"This one is mine," I explain, our eyes meeting. "Now you have a set. One for you, one for me."

“It's perfect," she whispers, carefully sliding the box into her purse. It isn't flashy, but it’s a quiet acknowledgment of the silly, deep history we share–a history where a piece of glass could mean everything.

We drive back to Cousins just as the afternoon is turning golden. When we walk into the house, it’s completely silent–too silent.

"Where is everyone?" Belly asks, looking around the empty kitchen.

"They're gone," I say, leaning in to kiss the top of her head. "Mom and Laurel agreed to go out for the night, something about a 'celebratory girls' night' and Jere’s at Cam’s."

Belly’s face breaks into a shocked, delighted grin. "You got them all to leave?"

"For our anniversary," I confirm. "And since you took care of breakfast, I'm taking care of dinner. Go," I nudge her toward the living room. "Put your feet up, find a movie, and stay out of my kitchen."

I strip off my sweatshirt and get to work. I put on the playlist I made for her and let the familiar music fill the space. I’m not nearly as skilled as Mom or Jere, but I can make a decent, no-fuss pasta with garlic bread–comfort food.

Belly, meanwhile, is curled up on the old, soft sofa, bundled under a blanket, her knees pulled to her chest. I glance over frequently, watching her read; a peaceful, contented look on her face. The quiet noise of the sauce simmering, the music playing, and the sight of her completely relaxed in the next room makes the work feel less like a chore and more like the most essential, perfect routine.

After dinner, we migrate toward the sound of the ocean. We end up on the porch swing, the familiar wood groaning gently under our combined weight.

I pull her onto my lap, her legs draping over mine. She settles in, and I feel the small, cool pressure of the glass unicorn resting safely in her hand against my chest, right where she’s holding it.

"Best day ever," she murmurs, echoing her words from her birthday, tilting her head back to look at the scattered stars.

“Thank you for my gift,” she adds, tightening her grip slightly on the little glass figure.

“Actually, that wasn’t my gift.” She tilts her head in confusion.

I gently take the unicorn from her and place it carefully on the small table beside the swing where I’d hidden her anniversary present earlier. I reach for the small, unvarnished wooden box; simple and plain, but heavy with meaning, and place it in her hands.

She straightens up, intrigued, and runs her fingers over the smooth surface. "What is this?"

"Just open it.” I say, smiling.

She lifts the lid, and the porch light catches the contents. Nestled inside are three items.

First, she pulls out a small, worn piece of sea glass, cloudy and smooth, the colour of a faded sapphire. "I know where this is from," she whispers, turning it over in her palm. "That stormy day we tried to build a sandcastle and you almost broke your foot."

"The same year as the last Great Boardwalk Showdown," I chuckle. "And you cried because I used the wrong ratio of sand to water. I kept it."

Next, she lifts a tiny, black-and-white photo, no bigger than a stamp. It’s a candid shot of us from years ago–her with braces and a neon green t-shirt, me squinting into the sun. I’d kept it tucked away in the back of my desk drawer at college.

"Oh my God," she laughs, tracing the outline of her younger self. "My hair."

"Still beautiful," I murmur, kissing the top of her head.

The final item is a folded piece of cream-coloured paper. It’s heavier, thicker than a regular note.

She opens it, and the writing is my own. It isn't a simple "Happy Anniversary" letter. It’s a long, detailed handwritten list, titled: Ten Summers.

Her eyes scan the words, and her breathing hitches.

The exact moment you beat me at Monopoly in ‘10. 

The look on your face when you first tasted a dirt bomb in ‘11.

The first time I heard you snore through the walls in ‘12-you were absolutely exhausted after a full day out in the ocean.

The sound of your laugh right before Steven fell in the pool at the club while trying to do the moonwalk in ‘13. 

The way you smelled after swimming through the seaweed bed in '14.

The time you fell asleep on (and drooled all over) my trig homework in ‘15.

The way your face lit up when I first told you about infinity in ‘16. 

The fierce determination to not throw up on the Tower of Terror in ‘17.

The force of your hug when you heard I’d made varsity football in ‘18.

The quiet focus in your eyes the day I taught you how to shag dance in ‘19–you were trying so hard not to step on my toes.

She reads the whole thing, her lower lip trembling slightly. When she finally looks up, her eyes are glistening.

"Conrad," she manages, my name breaking on a sob. "This is... I love this. I love this more than anything."

"I wanted you to know that I remember every single summer." I whisper, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "In every single one, it was always you at the centre of it all. I haven’t just loved you for one year, Belly. I’ve loved you since before I knew what that word meant."

She closes the box and sets it carefully back on the table, then turns and throws herself against me, burying her face in my neck. I pull her impossibly tighter, anchoring us both in the deep embrace. The lifelong truth of my love, finally spoken, settles between us–vast and certain as the ocean itself.

End of Part One

Chapter Text

Part 2 - I can’t let you go, now that I’ve got it

September, 2023

Belly

The halls of Chesterbrook High smell like old gym socks and cheap cafeteria food. It’s early September, but the air inside is already stale, thick with the bubbling anxiety of senior year. Everything here feels dull, muted, and infinitely smaller than it did three months ago. I walk the familiar route to my locker, pushing past the same faces, dealing with the same shallow, endless drama that seems to reheat itself daily.

The real world–the one with colour, hope, and urgency–is two hours north, in a dorm room in Johns Hopkins, in a city called Baltimore.

The one undeniable upside to the impending doom of senior year, however, is the car. After a summer of intense budgeting, Mom and I finally found one–a five-year-old Toyota Corolla. It isn’t flashy, but it’s reliable. Now, having my own wheels means I’m not just waiting for my life to start, I can drive straight toward it.

Every day, I check the mileage on the car and the dwindling numbers on the calendar. I live for Friday afternoon when my classes let out and my 108 minute drive begins, or when Conrad’s Range Rover finally pulls into my driveway.

He usually calls me Thursday nights, late, after his study groups have broken up. Tonight, I’m curled up on my bed, the phone warm against my cheek, the noise of the house mercifully far away.

"Hey," he says, his voice tired but steady. It's not the strained, broken voice from last September, but the low, measured tone of someone anchored in his new routine, completely in control of his future.

"Hey, you," I reply, tracing the faded floral pattern on my duvet. "How was biochem?"

"Brutal. We were up until two solving problems.” The line crackles faintly with the distance, “But I got an A on the first quiz." He sounds legitimately proud, and the happiness in his voice is a rush of warm endorphins for me.

“How did the session with Dr. K go?”

"Yeah, it was good. I thought it’d be different not seeing him in person, but it was kinda nice to be able to talk about everything in my own space. He’s actually helping me keep the panic attacks from even starting, you know? Just... managing."

A wide smile pushes its way to my face. He is thriving. He has purpose, clear goals, and he’s holding his life together better than he ever did. The fact that I was a part of him getting here–that feels like a secret, hard-won victory.

“I’m really proud of you,” I tell him, the words simple and entirely true, “For getting the A, and for sticking with Dr. K. You’re doing so well.”

“Yeah, well, the A was pure luck,” he says quickly, his tone shifting in a dismissal of his achievement, “Honestly, the workload here is insane. I don’t know how anyone keeps up without skipping meals or sleep.”

He lets out a tired sigh as he continues, “But the study group saved me today. This girl, Agnes, she’s insane. Like, she tutors us, but she also has a part-time lab job. She practically lives in the library."

Agnes. Huh. I hear the respect; the pure admiration for her intellect in his tone. My heart gives a single, small unwelcome thump against my ribs.

"Agnes," I repeat, making the name sound casual. It tastes dry. "Sounds... driven."

"Yeah, definitely. But a good kind of driven. Anyway, what about you? Ready for the homecoming bonfire?"

I force a bright unnatural sound into the phone. "Totally! But I'm going to need to cut out early to get enough sleep for the drive on Saturday. You know... two hours and a dream." I push the image of Agnes–smart, intense, holed up in the library with my boyfriend–out of my mind. I focus only on the certainty of the weekend.

-

By Saturday morning, the anxiety is forgotten. I’m standing in his tiny dorm room. It smells like new textbooks and his specific, woodsy cologne that always makes my nerves settle. 

"God, I missed you," he murmurs, his hands immediately finding the skin beneath my t-shirt.

He kisses me–not the goodbye kiss of quiet promises, but a hungry, possessive one that devours the two-hour gap between us. We fall onto the narrow twin bed, the sheets still smelling sterile.

This is our routine now: intense connection packed into forty-eight frantic hours. We talk about his classes, my terrible high school calculus, and the future. We wander through the campus, and I feel a swell of pride watching him navigate this new, enormous world.

We walk past the student union. He points out the different buildings, naming them casually. "That's where the study group meets, and that’s where Agnes buys her ridiculously expensive coffees."

He says the name so casually, so unconsciously, as if she’s a piece of campus architecture. It stings. It's the casualness that hurts the most.

"Honestly, though, those espresso drinks are practically the same as black coffee, just overpriced, but she swears by them when she’s pulling an all-nighter," he continues, already talking about some trivial detail of campus life.

I hear the words Agnes, expensive coffees, and all-nighter, and my mind is already pulling away, the thin shield of my weekend security cracking wide open.

Later, scrolling through my feed while he showers, I see it. A post tagged to the university’s pre-med account: Late night fuel for the best and brightest.

There’s a picture of four people crammed around a table overflowing with notes and empty coffee cups. Conrad is there, head tilted back, laughing–a genuine, unguarded laugh. And sitting right next to him, their shoulders touching, is Agnes. She’s looking at Conrad with a small, knowing smile on her face. Her hair is fiery red, pulled back efficiently, and her eyes are clear and focused. She doesn't have the beach-y, messy look of the Cousins crowd; she looks sharp, prepared, and like she belongs here.

I feel a familiar, sickening lurch in my gut. I quickly swipe past the picture, but the image is burned behind my eyelids.

He comes out of the shower, the towel slung low on his hips, steam following him into the small room. God, he’s beautiful.

"What is it?" he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly as he catches the rigidity in my shoulders.

I shake my head, forcing a smile that feels brittle and thin. "Nothing. Just tired. Come here."

I pull him to me, burying my face in his damp chest, breathing in his scent, trying to anchor myself to the one thing I know is real. But the anxiety settles deep in my stomach–the tiny, sharp fear that Agnes belongs in his future in a way I don't know how to compete with. The fear that the two-hour drive is actually a world away.

-

A week later and the picture of Agnes and Conrad laughing over a textbook has settled like a knot of ice in my chest. It’s not just the closeness; it's the context. Agnes is his peer. She speaks the language of Biochem and Pre-Med–a language I don't even have an alphabet for yet.

My traitorous mind suddenly jumps to the sex dream Conrad had refused to discuss last month. Maybe it wasn’t just about the timing; maybe he thought I wasn’t mature enough to handle that side of his life, either.

I shake the thought violently from my head. That was the old Conrad, the one ruled by chaos and fear. The Conrad I know now, the thriving one, is honest. I trust him with my whole heart–and with my body. 

But even so, the intellectual gap yawning between us feels desperately real. My AP calculus class suddenly feels like finger-painting.

I decide that I need to catch up. I can’t go to college yet, but I can damn well start acting like I belong there. I haul every AP prep book off the library shelves. I sign up for the free online SAT prep course. My study habits change overnight. Instead of hanging out with Taylor after school, I lock myself in my room, the glow of my desk lamp competing with the last rays of sun. My new mantra is: If I’m smart enough, I’m good enough.

When Conrad calls, he sounds genuinely, completely consumed by his workload. He still makes time to call every night, but those calls are late, and his energy level is spent, his voice a low hum against the phone.

One Tuesday night, I try to steer the conversation into intellectual territory. "So, I was looking at the course descriptions for organic chemistry," I say, rifling through the SAT vocab flashcards that are spread out on my bed.

He sighs softly, but it's a sound of exhaustion, not annoyance. "Belly, that’s next semester for me. My brain is fried. I literally just spent eight hours looking at amino acids. I need to hear about your day, not think about mine. Tell me about your history class–anything."

I quickly pivot. "Right. Sorry. Fine. Well, in AP English today, Ms. Jones yelled at us for twenty minutes because no one remembered the difference between a simile and a metaphor, and someone suggested she just Google it."

A low, tired chuckle rolls through the phone.

"Tell me about the party you went to," I say, trying to sound breezy.

"Oh, it was fine. The guys on the floor mostly. Agnes was there for maybe ten minutes, but she left early to help me outline a lab report that’s due Thursday. She’s seriously the only thing keeping me afloat in physics right now."

Agnes. Again.

He speaks about her with such natural, honest reliance. It’s not romantic, but it’s something almost as scary: deep, shared collaboration. I hear the gratitude, the acknowledgment that she is essential to his success. I realise that while I am doing this stressful, lonely work for him–shut away in my room with my flashcards, trying to intellectually keep up–she is doing his work with him. She’s in the trenches, bonding over shared trauma and achievement.

-

I obsessively check his social media. I find another shared post: Agnes has tagged him in a story about the crushing realities of the pre-med track, adding the caption: At least we suffer together.

The words hit me like a physical blow. We suffer together. I realise that she sees him at his most vulnerable–stressed, exhausted, and needing help–and I only get the carefully curated, rested version on the weekends.

I trace the hours of silence that have stretched between us in the last week on my fingers as I scroll through my phone; twelve hours, nine hours, a fifteen-hour stretch broken only by a single, efficient text. His texts are quick and functional: "Late night study session. Love you." or "Can't talk, group meeting. Sorry, love you.” The "I love you" is always there, but the absence of his spontaneous thoughts, his random observations–the real, messy Conrad–makes those silent hours feel like a vast, empty space.

The night before our scheduled weekend visit, I can’t stand the silence anymore. I need a voice that isn't connected to gorgeous redheads or med school. I call Jeremiah.

He answers after a few rings, his voice bright. "Bells! What's up? I was just playing FIFA."

"Hey, Jere. Nothing's up. Just… can you talk for a second?" I curl up on the window seat, staring out at the dark street.

"For you, Belly, anytime," he says. "Wait, is it still raining up there? It’s been pouring here all day, and I've got this huge Spanish paper due I can barely focus on."

"No, it's totally clear here. Just cold," I say, trying to sound casual. "How bad is the paper? Do you wanna run conjugations with me?"

"Nah, I'll grind it out. But thanks, Bells. Hey, did you see the picture of Steven and Taylor at that campus bar? Taylor looked like she was having way too much fun considering Steven has an 8 AM final."

A sharp, unexpected pang of jealousy hits me. Princeton is less than an hour from Philly, which means that Taylor and Steven can meet up at almost any time with minimal planning, while my almost-two-hour drive to Baltimore often feels like crossing a continent.

I force a small laugh. "Yeah, she texted me about it. She said she was 'providing essential stress relief.' You know Taylor."

"I do. And I bet Steven got exactly zero studying done afterward. Anyway, is that really all you called for? To talk about the weather and my boring homework? What's really up, Bells? Trouble in paradise?"

I silently curse the unnerving, innate Fisher perception. Both brothers share this frustrating trait, able to see through my attempts at casual deflection and pinpoint the exact source of my anxiety. Jeremiah had just done it effortlessly.

"No, not trouble. Just…school. And…” I let out a resigned sigh, “Conrad’s new study buddy Agnes…” I trail off, hating the sound of my petty confession.

The line is silent for a moment, and I know Jeremiah is just waiting, not judging.

“I don’t know, Jere. I just feel like I'm clinging to the outside of his life and she's right there in the eye of the storm with him." The words sound small and petulant even to my own ears, confirming my worst fear: I’d been replaced by a smart girl who knows the same things Conrad knows.

He lets out a slow breath that vibrates gently through the phone. "Okay, let me tell you something about Connie. Something he would probably kill me for telling you."

"Okay.”

"Do you want to know something he said to me after he broke the news about you two being together that summer? It was by the pool."

"Yeah," I whisper, gripping the phone tighter.

"He told me that his chest physically hurt to not tell you he was in love with you." Jeremiah pauses, letting the weight of the confession hang there. "But, I’ll bet he still didn’t tell you he loved you straight away.”

He takes my silence as confirmation and chuckles.

“See? He’s an idiot about communicating sometimes, but he doesn't do casual, Bells. He commits. The only person he’s ever wanted by his side is you."

"I know that," I say, a tear finally escaping, the knot in my chest starting to loosen.

"You know it, but you need to feel it," Jeremiah corrects, his voice gentle. "He's not pulling away; he's just surviving pre-med. His love is the one thing he's certain of, so he puts it on the shelf while he fights the fire. It's stupid, but it's Conrad. He makes the two-hour drive to see you because you're his safe place, not his extra credit. You're the whole damn point."

I manage a shaky laugh. "Thanks, Jere."

"Go get some sleep, Bells. And quit stalking Agnes’ Instagram. She's just competition for study time, not your boyfriend."

I hang up feeling lighter, the image of a younger Conrad, desperate with love, suddenly much clearer than the image of the stressed med student. I lay in bed for a while, letting the sincerity of Jeremiah's words sink in. My anxiety is gone, replaced by a deep need to simply hear his voice before the long drive tomorrow.

He answers halfway through the first ring, his voice low and immediately warm. "Hey, I was just about to call you."

"Hi," I whisper, flooded with relief that he thought of me first. "I just… wanted to tell you I finished the first module of the SAT course."

"Really? That’s awesome!" he says, his voice oozing with pride. "Seriously, you're killing it. I'm so proud of you, Belly.”

I practically melt into the pillow. “How was your day?”

He lets out a loud sigh, “Long.” He pauses, a slight catch in his breath, as if weighing the effort required to unload his stress before deciding against it. “Listen, is it okay if we call it a night? I have that 7 AM review session, and I barely slept. I wanna get a full night’s sleep tonight so I can actually be awake for you tomorrow."

"Yeah," I whisper, a small sigh escaping. He is doing the right thing. He is being healthy and responsible, exactly as Jeremiah explained. But the reality of his commitment to his new life still stings. "Okay. Goodnight.”

The line hangs silent for a beat too long, that pause stretching as if he’s gathering the right words–the ones that would explain his stress and make the distance easier. Then, he simply lets it all go, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.

“I love you. I can't wait to see you.”

"Love you more," I reply, trying hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“Sweet dreams, baby.” He says, before the connection snaps off, leaving the dead quiet of my room behind.

I stare at the ceiling. He isn't distant–he’s focused. And that focus, while good for him, leaves no real room for me during the week. The two-hour drive tomorrow feels less like a bridge and more like a final barrier between our two, separate lives. I need to see his life, touch his environment, and measure the distance between me and Agnes firsthand.

-

The drive feels endless. I play our playlist, but the music can’t fully drown out the anxious drumming that’s returned in full force in my chest. I pull into Baltimore, and the city is a dizzying grid of brick and granite. The campus is vast, impressive, and instantly intimidating. It’s colder here–a sharp, academic chill that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the air of rigorous purpose.

I find Conrad's dorm, and he’s waiting outside, leaning against a pillar. The sight of him–his hair slightly longer, his shoulders broader in his gray sweatshirt–makes my worry dissolve instantly, replaced by a wave of pure, concentrated relief.

"Belly," he breathes, pulling me into a hug that lifts me off my feet. He kisses me hard and slow, devouring the two-hour gap and my anxiety.

"I missed you so much," I whisper, breathing in his scent–textbooks, laundry soap, and Conrad.

"Me too. Come on, let's dump your stuff. The plan is dinner and a quiet night in. I'm wiped, but I'm yours."

He guides me through the halls of his dorm. The atmosphere is loud, energetic, and overwhelmingly male. My familiar, easy confidence from the beach house feels misplaced here.

We’re halfway down the main corridor toward his room when it happens.

"Conrad! Wait up!"

The voice is clear, crisp, and projects effortlessly through the hallway noise. We both turn.

It’s Agnes.

She’s walking toward us with two others–a tall guy and another girl–all carrying heavy backpacks. She looks exactly as she did in the photo: efficient, confident, and perfectly put-together.

Conrad sighs, but it's a sound of resignation, not annoyance. "Hey, Agnes. Hey, guys. This is Belly. My girlfriend. Belly, this is Agnes, Matt, and Chloe. We’re in the Biochem study group."

"Belly! Finally!" Agnes smiles genuinely, her expression warm. "We've all heard so much about you–Conrad never stops talking about you. I swear half of his motivation is getting back to you on Friday."

The acknowledgement, instead of offering relief, hits me with a sudden, new wave of insecurity. He talks about me–but I'm a distant goal, a reward. She's the person he talks with about the things that consume his day.

Agnes gestures toward a bright-yellow notebook tucked under her arm. "I am so, so sorry to do this, Belly, especially after you just got here, but we have to review the titration data. We have that TA meeting on Monday, and if we mess this up, we’re toast." She looks directly at me, her apology sincere. "It won’t take long, I promise."

Conrad looks at the notebook, then immediately back at me, his face deeply torn. "Shit. I completely forgot about that.” He turns to me, “It’s a huge part of the lab, but…” His hand clenches around mine.

I see the stress pulling at his features, the struggle between his commitment to his pre-med future and his commitment to me. The thought of being the anchor that weighs him down is unbearable. I make the decision for him.

I lean into him, pressing a quick kiss to his chin, and step back, loosening my grip on his hand. "No, seriously, go. I need a nap anyway. I'm totally wiped out from the drive. I'll unpack, crash for an hour, and then we can get dinner. Go be brilliant. I'll be fine."

He searches my face, relief mixing with guilt. "Are you sure? Just an hour?"

"I'm sure," I affirm. "Go. I’ll be here when you get back."

Agnes shoots me a grateful, respectful nod, and Conrad finally nods, releasing a sigh of both gratitude and defeat. "Okay. One hour. I promise. Love you."

"Love you," I reply.

He hands me the key to his dorm with a quick kiss, then rushes off, swallowed up by the group as they head toward the library doors.

My eyes trail after them as they go. I watch Agnes’s back–straight, purposeful, belonging–walking right beside the man who is supposed to be mine this weekend.

I’m left standing alone in the crowded, echoing hallway, holding my worn duffel bag. He is doing the healthy thing; he is succeeding. But the two hours of driving here suddenly feels like it was only the distance required to travel from a world where I was his everything, to a world where I’m merely a scheduled distraction. I’m here, but I am utterly separated.

-

Conrad

The library is a suffocating cube of studious despair. I’m sitting at a huge, communal table, surrounded by the three people who currently dictate the direction of my life. My Biochem notebook is open, but the pages are swimming. The diagrams of enzyme kinetics blur into meaningless swirls.

I keep glancing at the time. Twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven minutes since I left Belly standing alone in that sterile hallway.

A thick, sour guilt is crawling through my gut. I know I did the right thing. I have to be here. This titration data is complex, and if I don't pull my weight, the whole group–the only reason I’m still scraping A’s in this course–falls apart. I am finally succeeding, and I can’t sabotage that for anyone, especially not for her.

But the image of her face, that forced, brittle smile when she said, "Go be brilliant," burns behind my eyes. I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s unpacking in my tiny, awful room, feeling like she’s second-best to a piece of paper and a lab practical. The feeling is terrible. I hate that I make her feel that way, even when I'm trying to be better.

Agnes, sitting across from me, is a whirlwind of quiet efficiency. She moves through the data like a surgeon, highlighting key equations, her brow furrowed in concentration. She is brilliant, and she demands precision.

"Okay, look at the delta for the fifth sample, Conrad," she says, tapping the page sharply. "You carried the zero wrong here."

I force myself to lean in, to focus on the numbers, but my mind is a runaway train two hours away. I nod, fix the error, and immediately drift back to Belly. I picture her falling asleep on my tiny, hard bed, trying to pretend she’s not waiting for me.

The tension is killing me. When Matt announces he needs a bathroom break, I jump up immediately.

Agnes catches my eye. "I need one too," she murmurs.

We step out into the long, silent hallway near the restrooms, the sudden lack of intense focus making my shoulders slump.

Agnes doesn't mince words. She leans against the wall, crossing her arms, and her expression is neither judging nor demanding–just observant.

"You look like you're about to run down the street and flag down the first ride back to Philly," she says softly, but with a slight smile. "I'm guessing your mind isn't exactly in equilibrium right now."

I rub the back of my neck, feeling exposed. "It's Belly. I feel like an asshole. She drove all this way, and I dumped her immediately for a spreadsheet. She gets this look on her face, like she thinks I value this more than her."

Agnes pushes off the wall. "She's worried you're going to realise there are other people in the world who don't treat you like you're perpetually broken. Which, for the record, we don't." She looks at me pointedly. "But I get it. First serious college relationship. Look, you've been working on this material all week. You've earned a break. You should go."

My chest loosens with a surge of relief so profound it nearly buckles my knees. "Are you serious? Agnes, I can't leave you guys to–"

"I'll cover for you," she cuts in, waving a dismissive hand. "Seriously. I've already done the tough analysis. You just needed to check the math. I'll finish annotating and text you the main takeaways before midnight. Go be a good boyfriend. Go make sure she remembers how much you actually want her here."

"Thank you," I say, the gratitude thick in my throat. It's the kind of loyalty that money can't buy, the kind that saves your sanity. "I owe you. Seriously, I'll pay you back. Whatever you need, just name it."

She grins, the smart, challenging light coming back into her eyes. "Deal. You can cover the cost of all my coffee this week."

I actually laugh. Agnes’s coffee habit is legendary–she survives on five shots of espresso a day, easily costing thirty bucks a pop. "Knowing your caffeine habit, that's probably a fair exchange for the titration data," I concede, shaking my head.

"It is," she confirms. "Now get out of here. And next time, bring dinner. We're all starved."

I nod once, stuffing my notebook into my backpack. I don't look back. I’m already halfway out the door, eager to get back to the only person who made the relentless grind of this life feel worthwhile. I’m going to make this up to her.

Chapter Text

September, 2023 (continued)

Belly

The door to Conrad’s tiny dorm room flies open, and he’s there. He doesn't knock, he doesn't pause–he just tumbles in, already shedding his backpack. His hair is messed up, his sweatshirt is wrinkled, and the apology is written all over his face.

"I am so sorry," he says, the words rough and rushed. He sees me sitting on the edge of the twin bed, my duffel bag still unpacked beside me. The guilt in his eyes is immediate and real. "I should never have left you out there."

Before I can even formulate the tight, unhappy words I was rehearsing while sitting alone, he crosses the room in two strides and pulls me to my feet.

The intensity of his embrace chases all the cold, sharp campus air out of my lungs. He crushes me against his chest, his hands wrapping tightly around my back, burying his face in my hair. "I hated leaving you," he murmurs against my temple. "It felt so wrong."

The simple, honest relief of his touch is overwhelming. The anxiety that had been a tight knot in my stomach unravels instantly. The image of Agnes and the titration data dissolves. All that matters is the solid weight of him, the scent of him, and the fierce grip of his arms.

I lean back just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, tired, but completely focused on me. I lift my hands and cup his cheeks, my thumbs brushing the light stubble. "It’s okay," I whisper, the words barely audible. "You had to. You have to pass."

"I know," he says, a sound of regret. "But they didn’t really need me for all of it. Agnes had the summary done, and I realised I was just staring at the clock, thinking about you. It wasn't worth the hour."

I know his regret is real, and as he carefully guides me backward, easing me onto the narrow bed, the time we lost dissolves into the immediate, pressing need for each other. His movement is gentle; a stark contrast to the fierce passion I know is simmering just beneath his skin.

He hovers over me for a moment, his hands framing my head on the pillow, his dark eyes–now intense and completely present–devouring my face. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with a desire that mirrors mine.

He doesn't rush. He pulls back just enough to pull my sweatshirt over my head, taking his time to trace the line of my collarbone before letting the fabric fall to the floor. Then the camisole, then the jeans, each layer removed with a slow, deliberate reverence that makes my skin prickle with anticipation. The cool dorm air hits my exposed skin, but his hands follow, leaving trails of heat and electric awareness. He is thorough and present, his focus complete and absolute–the total opposite of the distracted, consumed guy I saw in the hallway. Every touch, every kiss, is a way of saying: You are my priority. You are my home.

When I’m bare beneath him, he slides down, his lips trailing hot, wet kisses down my stomach until he reaches my inner thigh. I gasp, arching my back, my fingers immediately tangling in his dark, soft hair. He uses his mouth and tongue with a focused intensity that leaves no room for anything but pleasure. He maps every sensitive curve, every angle, drawing me closer and closer to the edge, until the tight, coiled knot of my desire snaps. An overwhelming, ragged cry tears from my throat as I shatter against his mouth.

He doesn't stop, continuing the worship until the waves of my release subside into a pulsing, heavy thrum. Only then does he shift, rising up and moving between my legs. His chest is heaving, his eyes heavy-lidded and black with need. I reach for him, desperate to feel his skin on mine, raking my hands down his shoulders, pulling him down for a kiss that is deep, demanding, and utterly consuming. When our mouths finally meet, I taste myself–my own sharp, hot arousal still on his tongue and lips–and the confirmation hits me like a physical blow. I am his, and he is mine.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grab the foil packet from his jeans pocket on the floor. His eyes never leave mine as he tears it open and rolls the condom on, the moment of pragmatic care somehow amplifying the heat between us.

He enters me with a hard, powerful thrust that steals the air from my lungs. The depth of the invasion is shocking; a perfect, exquisite pain that I meet with a sharp, guttural moan. I cling to him, my legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him deeper still.

This isn't just sex; it's a declaration. Each powerful drive of his hips is a punch, a release of all the stress and distance that had separated us. He is relentless, driving into me again and again with a frantic, desperate rhythm. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the flex of his muscles beneath my hands. My fingernails dig into the small of his back, drawing harsh, stinging lines down his sweat-slicked skin–and I press harder, needing his sharp cry of pain to ground me in the reality of this moment. I want the marks to be there tomorrow, proof that he was here, that he was mine, that I held him this tightly.

The bed groans beneath us, the sound lost beneath the ragged breaths and the wet slap of our bodies meeting. His hips slam into mine, the force of his passion driving me up, making my head pound. My focus narrows until all that exists is the magnificent, driving weight of him inside me. I look up at him, my vision blurred with unshed tears, and see the same agony of pleasure on his face–his teeth gritted, his jaw tight.

He pushes down one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and we both convulse. A violent shudder runs through his body as he spills himself into me in a hot, overwhelming rush. My own climax hits with a blinding flash; a final, intense burst of pleasure that grips my whole body.

He collapses against me, his chest crushed against mine, every muscle in his body spent. His breath is a burning rush against my ear, and all I can do is hold him, my arms locked around his neck, my hands clutching the tender, stinging skin of his back. We lay there, heavy, utterly tangled, and absolutely, perfectly home.

–

On Saturday morning, we wake up late, the sunlight filtering weakly through the small window. We don't talk about school. We don't talk about Agnes. We fall back into our rhythm, the one we spent all summer perfecting.

We walk the campus, not to look at the library or the labs, but to find the best local coffee shop–the one that feels least like a place of study. We split an oversized muffin. He makes me laugh, pointing out absurd campus statues and making up backstories for the students rushing past. He’s the old Conrad again–the easy, witty one, but tempered with the new, steadiness I love.

It's a perfect day. We spend the afternoon in his room, listening to music and working quietly side-by-side: he reviews notes for a History elective, and I tackle my terrifying AP English reading list. He occasionally reaches out, running his foot against mine beneath the desk, or leans over to press a kiss to my temple, a simple, non-verbal confirmation that I am still here, and he is still mine.

By Sunday afternoon, as I’m packing my overnight bag, I feel fortified. The anxiety from Friday is gone, replaced by the warmth of a successful, intimate weekend. The two hours of driving feels like nothing again. We have cracked the code. We can have this, even two hours apart.

He walks me to my car, kissing me goodbye with the same promise he made on Friday–fierce, thorough, and final.

"See you next weekend," he says, his hands lingering on my shoulders.

"Two hours," I remind him, smiling.

I pull away from the curb, turning my music up loud, the memory of his strong arms and steady heart making the lonely drive home bearable. I think about Agnes for a brief second, but the thought no longer holds power. She’s just a collaborator; I am his constant. Everything will be fine.

–

Everything is not fine.

The following Friday, I make the two-hour drive to Baltimore again. It makes more sense. Conrad's classes are intensifying, his study hours are insane, and I have more flexibility with my senior schedule. The drive is no big deal, I tell myself, focusing on the fact that I’m the one showing up, the one supporting his future.

This weekend, however, feels subtly more strained. Conrad is visibly running on empty. Our Friday night is still intimate, but it’s punctuated by him falling asleep on my shoulder while muttering about Krebs cycles.

On Saturday afternoon, while he's at a mandatory lab review, I decide to be helpful. His dorm room is starting to turn into a disaster zone–a collage of empty energy drink cans, rumpled clothes, and textbooks stacked dangerously high. I start quietly tidying up, trying to make his space feel more like a sanctuary.

I pick up his favorite gray sweatshirt from the floor. As I fold it, three small, crinkled slip of paper fall out of the pocket. Receipts from The Coffee Cart. I scan the date of the first one: Tuesday. The total is $7.50, itemised for a complex, multi-shot espresso drink–definitely not his usual black coffee. The second, dated Tuesday as well, for $6.85. The third, dated Tuesday again, is $8.10.

My mind immediately clicks. I start checking his pockets and backpack compartments–a habit born from a deeply buried insecurity I can’t quite silence. I find nine more slips of paper. All from the same campus coffee cart, all for ridiculously expensive espresso drinks that Conrad doesn't drink. Three times a day, all week, like clockwork.

My heart pounds a deafeningly cold rhythm. This isn't a one-time payment; this is a pattern. This is Agnes’ routine, and Conrad has been consistently funding it. He didn't just buy a round of coffee for the study group–he's been covering her daily fuel for the entire week he was supposed to be studying hard.

I shove all twelve receipts deep into the pocket of my own jeans. I spend the next two hours running the scenarios. The most logical reason–he’s been paying her back for covering his work last Friday–is the obvious conclusion. But the fact that it's a consistent, daily exchange that he never mentioned makes the omission feel massive. I hate that I’m immediately suspicious, but the knowledge that he saw Agnes enough to buy her three separate, high-cost coffees every day of this week, while I only get him on weekends, is a physical pain.

When Conrad finally gets back, he looks completely spent. He barely manages a smile before collapsing onto the bed.

"Hey," he mumbles into the pillow. "God, I missed you."

I sit beside him, my hand resting gently on his back. I decide I can't let this go. The cost of silence is too high.

"I helped clean up your room," I say softly.

"You’re a saint," he groans.

I take a deep breath. "I found some receipts in your sweatshirt."

He stiffens immediately beneath my hand. He slowly turns his head to look up at me, his green eyes tired but instantly wary. "Receipts?"

"Yeah. From the coffee cart. Every day this week. They were all for expensive espresso drinks. The kind Agnes gets," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. "Is that... are you–why are you buying her coffee?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and loaded. I am asking about seven-dollar coffees, but I’m really asking: Are you spending more time and money on her than you're letting on?

Conrad sits up abruptly, scrubbing his hand over his face. The weariness is gone, replaced by a flash of genuine exasperation.

"Belly, come on," he says, his voice flat. "It was the deal. She asked for her coffee covered for the week after she finished my notes and covered for me. I didn't tell you because it's meaningless, and I didn't want you to think I was making up excuses." He lets out a frustrated sigh.

He has explained it. The logic is sound. It’s a completely innocent, honest transaction between study mates. Yet, the fact that he knew it was the kind of detail I would spin and chose to keep it from me–that’s the thing that hurts. He already anticipates and manages my insecurity, proving he knows it's there.

"It wasn't an excuse, Conrad," I say, my voice trembling slightly. "But it was the truth. And you didn't tell me because you knew the truth made me feel less important."

He reaches for my hand, his grip tight and pleading. "No. I didn't tell you because I knew you'd turn Agnes into some kind of villain in your head, and she's not. She's my friend.” He squeezes my hand as he says that last word, “Belly, she’s the only reason I'm passing physics. And you are the only reason I'm here. Can't that be enough?"

I squeeze his hand back, swallowing the tightness in my throat. I know he’s being honest. I know he loves me. But knowing the growing friendship–and dependency–he has with Agnes makes the separation between us feel wider than two hours.

"It has to be," I whisper, looking away. "It just has to be."

–

The conversation about the coffee receipts ends with a truce, but it’s a fragile one. I trust Conrad completely, but the realisation that he anticipates my jealousy–and manages the truth around it–is a new kind of wall between us. We spend the rest of Saturday trying to be normal, but a small, cold silence clings to the edges of the room.

The true test arrives on Saturday night.

We’re watching a terrible movie on his laptop, my head resting on his chest, when his phone buzzes against my ear. He picks it up reluctantly.

"It’s Agnes," he murmurs slowly, frowning at the screen.

He opens the text, and I watch his face as he reads it. He hesitates, then glances at me.

"She’s asking if we want to join them for dinner tonight," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "The whole study group. Matt, Chloe, and her. Off-campus. Just... bonding."

The invitation feels like a direct challenge. I can retreat into the comfort of his arms, safe and distant, or I can step into the light and face the reality of his life. If I say no, I’m the insecure high school girlfriend who won’t let him have friends. If I say yes, I have to watch him interact with Agnes on her turf.

He sets the phone down. "I told her we were probably ordering pizza in. We don't have to go, Belly. We can just stay here."

His instant willingness to prioritise me over his friends is exactly what I need to hear. It’s also exactly why I know I have to say yes. I can’t let his social life–his health, his stability–depend on me being selfish.

I sit up, pushing my hair back. "No. That's a terrible idea. You need a break. And I want to meet them. Properly." I force a brightness into my voice that I don't feel. "It's good to know your people. Besides," I add, aiming for casual, "I hear Agnes is buying."

Conrad searches my eyes, relieved but still wary. "Are you absolutely sure? It'll be loud and probably all about glycolysis."

"I'm sure," I affirm. "Let's go."

–

We walk the ten minutes to the restaurant; an overly loud, crowded burger joint known for being student-friendly. The air is cold, but my hands are sweating inside my pockets.

The study group has already secured a large booth in the back. As we approach, I feel my heart start to pound a frantic, trapped rhythm.

"Look who finally showed up!" Matt calls out, grinning widely.

Agnes is already sliding over to make room for us. She looks up, and her welcome is immediate and warm. "Hey! Glad you guys made it. I figured you both needed real food that hasn't been reheated in a microwave."

I slide onto the bench next to Conrad. He immediately slips his arm around the back of my seat, his hand resting securely on my shoulder. It’s a silent, constant marker: She’s mine.

I know he means it as reassurance. But as the conversation immediately explodes into a complicated discussion about their upcoming midterm schedule and a massive research paper, I realise his arm around me doesn't shrink the distance between our worlds–it just highlights the separation.

I sip my water, my throat suddenly dry, watching Agnes speak. She is animated, funny, and she addresses Conrad as an absolute equal, challenging his ideas with sharp, immediate intelligence. She is undeniably a great friend, a brilliant collaborator, and the living embodiment of everything he needs to stay anchored to his new, successful life.

I force myself to laugh when everyone else does, feeling like a tourist watching a conversation in a language I don't understand. My resolve to be "secure" is already crumbling. Conrad's fingers tap a steady, reassuring rhythm against my shoulder blade. He breaks off mid-sentence about Organic Chemistry, looking down at me, his brow furrowed slightly. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes ask the question. You okay?

I offer a quick, tight nod, forcing a smile. Fine. You guys keep going. Conrad finishes off his sentence and leans into me, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.

Agnes' eyes flick over to us, and she slows the rapid pace of her speaking, letting a natural pause fall in the conversation flow. She deliberately turns her body toward me, meeting my gaze directly. Her eyes are sharp, but there's a definite kindness there.

"Sorry, Belly, our heads are basically in a petri dish right now," she says, her tone light and inclusive, gesturing apologetically at the table. "Seriously, we're awful. We only have one volume, and it’s 'hyper-focused pre-med student.' Tell us about your senior year. Are you relieved to be done with college applications, or is that stress still ahead?"

The abrupt shift of scrutiny makes my cheeks flush hot.

"Uh, they're still ahead," I manage, hating how thin my voice sounds. "I'm still taking my first round of SATs next month. I’m thinking somewhere close to here. Maybe Maryland or Morgan State."

"Oh, those are great schools," Agnes says immediately. She grins at Conrad, teasingly. "Hey, Fisher, you must be the expert on those applications now! Got any tips for what font size to use to get into the Dean’s good graces?”

Conrad laughs–a full, delighted sound that warms the knot in my stomach, despite the smirking redhead who brought it out of him. He squeezes my arm hard and beams at the table. "Trust me, Belly doesn’t need any tips. She’s gonna ace the SATs and we'll be splitting ramen on weekends in a year. Guaranteed."

He’s radiating pride. His belief in me is absolute, and for a powerful, wonderful second, it drowns out the noise of the restaurant and the complexity of his new life. He isn't talking about my grades; he’s talking about us. He frames my future around our continued presence in each other's lives.

I lean into his side, momentarily saved by the sincerity of his devotion.

The rest of the dinner is slightly easier, with Agnes making sure to ask me about high school sports and my favourite classes. Conrad keeps his hand on my thigh the entire time; a warm, heavy weight meant to ground me. But every answer I give, even under his protective hand, feels small, simple, and utterly insignificant next to their complex discussions.

Then, a subtle shift happens. Agnes asks me about my summer plans, which reminds me of Cousins, of home, of the place where I am wholly secure. I realise I don't have to compete on their academic terms; I just have to be myself. I stop filtering my stories through the lens of being "college-ready." When Matt mentions he misses good food from home, I launch into a funny, detailed description of Mom's chaotic kitchen and Susannah's infamous holiday feasts. I talk about the ocean, the boardwalk fights with Jeremiah, and the sheer ridiculousness of the people at the country club.

The conversation naturally drifts when Matt asks, "If you could jet off anywhere right now, exams be damned, where would you go?"

I don't hesitate. "Oh, definitely Paris. Always Paris."

Chloe, who had been quietly picking at her salad, snaps her head up. "Really? You're a Paris girl?"

"Totally. I've read every travel guide, watched every movie. I have a list of all the tiny, greasy bakeries I'm going to hit up before I even see the Eiffel Tower," I admit, the excitement making my words tumble out.

Chloe leans across the table, her eyes suddenly warm with a kindred spirit. "Me too! Everyone here is obsessed with European medical mission trips, but I just want to sit on a ridiculous park bench and eat expensive cheese. We need to exchange notes on cute cafes."

"Deal," I say, a genuine smile breaking out. For the first time all night, the tension fades completely. Chloe and I bond instantly over shared, purely non-academic dreams of hypothetical travel.

I lean into the charm. I use the easy, genuine wit that comes naturally when I'm relaxed. I make Matt and Chloe laugh–real, loud laughs that turn heads. Even Agnes cracks a genuine smile when I describe a disastrous attempt to surf last summer. I’m not competing with their brains; I’m winning their attention. I may not know glycolysis, but I know how to hold a room. 

For the rest of the night, I take my place in the conversation, not as the intimidated girlfriend, but as the engaging, funny guest. Conrad watches me, his eyes full of that familiar, proud adoration. The pressure on my thigh from his hand shifts from being protective to purely possessive. He gives my leg a firm squeeze, a silent message that he is watching, proud, and completely tuned in to me.

When we finally walk back to the dorm later that night, the city air feels lighter.

"They really like you," Conrad says, pulling me close to his side. His voice is deep with satisfaction.

"They're nice," I agree, genuinely. "They're so smart, Conrad. You guys are a really good team."

I lean my head against his shoulder, letting the comfortable weight of his presence wash over me. His constant touch, the way he keeps me tethered, still confirms that he sees how much effort I have to put in to feel grounded here. But tonight, I’m not shaky; I’m settled. I know I’m not going to ace a chemistry exam, but I proved I belong next to him. I can stop trying to compete with his academic life.

I look up at him in the darkness, and the realisation hits me with a sober clarity: The competition isn't Agnes, or Chloe, or the entire concept of graduate-level study. The real fight is the two-hour distance and the sheer effort required to maintain two separate lives. The challenge is bridging the gap between who we are here, and who we are when we're apart.

–

I get home on Sunday, and everything feels easy, almost boring, in a comforting way. Mom's on the porch reading. The house smells like laundry and dinner simmering. This is my world; uncomplicated and mine.

I realise I had spent the last few weeks trying to mould myself into the kind of girl I thought Conrad needed: intense, hyper-focused, college-ready. All that effort just made me feel awkward and small at that dinner table. I wasn't just losing myself; I was diminishing the person he actually fell in love with.

I decide to stop chasing his life and start climbing back into my own.

I text Taylor immediately, canceling my self-imposed Saturday study session next week. I tell her I'm free, and she immediately drags me back to our life.

I re-commit to volleyball. I show up to practice feeling fired up, not because I want a college scholarship, but because I miss the feeling of my muscles burning and the simple, undeniable rush of a perfect spike. On the court, there are no titration data points or pre-med cohorts–just sweat, teamwork, and a score. I’m good here. I don't have to try to keep up; I set the pace.

Saturday night, Taylor and I hit a huge senior party. It's loud, sticky, and gloriously familiar. Everyone knows me. They know my stories, my history, and my laugh. I am the centre of my friend group again. The attention is effortless, and the validation is immediate. I wear an old dress and feel a thousand times more confident than I did wearing my 'nice jeans' at the restaurant with Conrad's brilliant friends.

I text Conrad a quick picture of Taylor and me crammed into a photo booth, making ridiculous faces, and then I drop my phone into my purse. I don't check it for hours. For the first time in weeks, I am fully present, fully Belly.

I dance until my feet ache. I talk until my throat is raw. I’m laughing with a group of guys from the soccer team when the thought hits me, clear and sharp: I am happy. Genuinely, effortlessly happy.

When I finally pull my phone out around 1 AM, there’s a text from Conrad: "Looks like fun. Be safe. Miss you." It was sent hours ago.

A quick pang of guilt hits me, followed immediately by a dangerous thought: This is easy. This life–the fun, the simplicity, the feeling of being loved exactly as I am–is effortless. Conrad's life, and our relationship right now, requires constant, draining effort: the two-hour drive, the emotional performance, the constant need for reassurance.

Lying in my own bed on Sunday, the sunlight soft and familiar on my face, I realise the truth: I can’t rely on Conrad to be everything for me.

My journey isn't about proving I belong in his world; it's about making my own world so vibrant, so fulfilling, that I feel complete even when he's two hours away. My happiness is my responsibility. And I won't let the fear of losing him stop me from being the vibrant person he fell in love with.

It's a huge, scary, and liberating thought. I don't need his constant touch to confirm my worth. I just need to remember who I am.

Chapter Text

October, 2023

Conrad

The text from Belly on Saturday night is the last I hear from her for hours. I only see her response when I finally crawl out of the library on Sunday morning. I'm sitting in the student union, eating a granola bar that tastes like cardboard when I finally open her message. 

Hey, sorry, huge senior party. Just got home. Call you later, love you.

My first, immediate reaction is a wave of relief. I look at the time on the text. She was out late. She was having fun–real fun–the kind of easy, uncomplicated fun she hasn't had since the summer ended.

I scroll back to the photo booth picture. She's squinting against the flash, her hair messy, her smile wide and unburdened. She looks like the Belly who used to drag me off the couch to swim in the ocean at midnight–vibrant, slightly reckless, and completely alive.

When she was here last week, even after the dinner where she had dazzled everybody with her charm, I could feel the tension in her shoulder under my hand. I could feel her trying to be smart enough for my friends, or quiet enough for my studying. I had spent the entire weekend trying to reassure her that she was still my priority, but all I did was reinforce the idea that she needed my reassurance.

But this–this picture, this late-night text–this is her owning her life. She wasn't worried about me. She wasn't waiting by her phone for my approval. She was out, being herself.

The memory of my dream from the summer surfaces, immediate and unwanted, pulling up the intensity I’d been pushing away. I’d buried the shame, but looking at this picture, the connection is undeniable. This is what I need. Not a chameleon, not a mindless cheerleader, but this strength; this force. I don't just want her to be just ‘okay’ without me; I want her to own her power.

The truth hits me: that fierce independence is the same quality that made her so potent in the dream. If she’s this strong; this utterly confident and independent in her own life, it means she can handle things. It means I don't have to worry about breaking her. It makes the two-hour drive feel less like a fragile, stressed lifeline and more like a bridge between two strong, separate territories. 

She's building her life, and I'm building mine. That stability, that independence, is exactly what I need. It means that while I'm struggling to keep my own head above the rough waters of pre-med, I can trust her to navigate her own challenges. I don't have to feel responsible for keeping her afloat too.

The thought of engaging with this Belly–the one who is unapologetically alive–suddenly eases the knot in my chest. It feels exhilarating.

It's not the familiar, tender lust that I usually have for my girlfriend; it's a consuming desire for her authority. I see the reckless energy in her smile and I want her to turn that force on me. I want her to be the nurse again–utterly in command, except now, she's doing it because she chooses that power, not because she's playing a role. My palms actually feel slick at the thought of finally, completely letting go under the pressure of her strength. That fear of weakness still whispers, but the promise of this liberation is louder, more intoxicating.

I text her back.

That's my girl. Get some sleep. Call me when you wake up. I miss you already.

A slow, certain heat blooms low in my stomach. The shift in dynamic is immediate and potent. This isn't just lust; it's recognition of where I can finally find respite. I finally know what I have to tell her.

–

I drive up to her on Friday night, feeling energised. I park the car and walk up her familiar driveway, no longer burdened by the guilt of separation, but fueled by anticipation.

She opens the door before I even knock, and her smile is immediate and wide. It's the brightest thing I've seen all week. She launches into my arms, and the kiss isn't frantic, just deeply satisfied.

"You're finally here," she murmurs. "I missed you. Two weeks is too long."

"You were busy being a senior," I tease, rubbing her back. "Tell me everything."

She spends the entire evening talking, and I spend the entire evening listening. She tells me about the volleyball tournament–the clutch saves, the screaming coach, the exhaustion. She tells me about the party, and how ridiculously fun it was to dance with Taylor until their feet bled.

There's no anxiety in her voice. There's no performance. She's not trying to casually mention an AP prep book or ask me about enzyme kinetics. She’s simply existing in the centre of her own brilliant world.

I lay on her bed while she changes, and I watch her move around her room–this space that feels perfectly hers. She’s got music playing, she’s humming along, and her movements are effortless. It’s like watching the sun come out. She is so self-contained, so full of her own quiet victories.

"They won two games against us," she says, pulling on a sweatshirt. "It was exhausting, but it felt amazing to just be in the game."

Be in the game. That's what she's doing with her life now. She isn't waiting for me to dictate the terms of her happiness. She's not trying to shrink herself to fit my complex world; she's expanding her own world, making it bright enough for both of us. The anxiety that used to define her–the same anxiety that used to crush me–is gone, replaced by this fierce, athletic energy.

I just stare at her. This new version of Belly is magnetic. She is the girl I've always loved, but she's stronger now, more certain of her own worth. I realise that in this moment, I’m falling in love with her all over again; differently this time–not as the girl I desperately need to save, but as the young woman who so beautifully saves herself. She is truly an anchor, solid and unwavering.

She finally turns from the dresser, catching my gaze. Her animated expression fades into slight confusion. "What?" she asks, a small wrinkle forming between her brows.

I don't move. I don't stop staring. The feeling is too immense to package into a casual comment. I feel the need to confess everything–the dream, the shame, the relief–but the raw truth is simpler.  "Nothing," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. I push myself up onto an elbow. "I just... I love you."

Her eyes soften immediately. The light in them shifts from questioning to pure, liquid affection. She crosses the small space to the bed, her momentum fluid. She doesn't say anything, just leans down, and we kiss. It's a long, reverent kiss. When her mouth finally pulls away, the air between us feels thick with a settled peace, the kind that follows a storm. 

The air in the room instantly turns heated. Belly reaches out, her hand finding the warm skin of my neck as I shift, finally rising fully to my feet. She wraps her hands around my neck and leans up to kiss me again, and this time it deepens from reverence to a consuming hunger, one born of relief as much as desire. Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, and the unspoken tension from the weeks of distance snaps.

Belly pulls back first, just enough to catch her breath. Her hands leave my hair and move to my chest, her fingers splayed and palm flat–a clear moment of physical assertion that steals the breath from my lungs. She pushes me gently, but insistently, backward. I fall onto the bed, the mattress sighing beneath my weight, landing with my feet still planted on the floor. She doesn't follow me down immediately. She stays standing, looking down at me for a split second, her eyes dark and blazing with this new confidence.

The angle is suddenly intimidating–she's the only one standing, and the shift in power is staggering. My mind flashes back to my dream, and a thrilling, instant heat pools low in my gut.

"Lie back," she says. Her voice is barely a whisper but it carries the weight of an undisputed command. I obey instantly, sliding my body back until I’m fully sprawled against the pillows, waiting.

Then she's over me.

She sits on my lap, straddling me, her arms wrapping tight around my neck. The kiss is deep, urgent. Her body is pressed against mine, a confirmation that she’s fully present, and fully choosing this. There’s a delicious, fierce agency in her movements. I thread my hands under her shirt, feeling the familiar, warm curve of her back.

Against my lips, she murmurs, her voice thick and trembling, "God, I missed this."

I catch the double meaning instantly. My fingers tighten on her skin. She isn't just talking about the physical closeness–she's talking about the ease, the security, the relief of being loved without condition or performance. She missed this feeling of being unquestionably ours.

"I missed this too," I breathe back, emphasising the word, letting her know I understood. This feeling. This certainty. This Belly, who knows exactly what she wants and isn't afraid to take it.

And take it she does.

Her hands move from my neck, sliding down my chest with a feather-light touch; a deliberate, non-negotiable instruction. She pushes the fabric of my t-shirt up and over my head in one fluid motion. I am completely still, holding my breath in thrilling anticipation. She casts it aside, then leans in, her lips tracing a hot path down my neck, across my collarbone, her breath a warm caress against my skin. I feel her tongue, light and teasing, on my chest, sending shivers through me. She’s in complete control, and the act of my total surrender is intoxicating.

She pushes my jeans down, then my boxers, slow and deliberate, her kisses following the path of her hands. She is exploring, tasting, rediscovering every inch of me, and I am a helpless, willing captive, lost in the sensation of her. The shame I felt in the dream is gone, replaced by the profound, grounding trust that this is her choice, her action.

She pauses, taking my wrists and gently guiding my hands back down to the mattress beside me. Her gaze is serious, direct. "Just keep these right here," she says, her voice a low command I wouldn’t dream of disobeying.

Then she pulls back, a mischievous, confident glint in her eyes. Still straddling me, she begins to undress herself. Her fingers, quick and graceful, go to the hem of her sweatshirt, and she pulls it over her head, revealing the soft curve of her stomach, her skin flushed and alive. Her hands move to her back with practiced ease, unhooking the lace of her bra before pulling it free and letting it drop beside her. She pauses, letting me watch, letting me revel in her strength.

I cannot take my eyes off her. The way the soft light from the bedside lamp catches the curve of her hip as she hikes her hips up slightly, shifting her weight onto her knees to give herself the necessary slack to unzip her jeans. The smooth, tan skin that is slowly revealed as she slides them down. The way she quickly works her small cotton briefs beneath her. Every moment is poetry. Her hair falls around her face, wild and dark, her eyes locked onto mine. She is utterly fearless, utterly radiant.

This is it, my mind whispers in silent, reverent prayer. This is everything I've ever dreamt about. Not just her body, beautiful as it is, but her–this confident, self-assured, incandescent woman, choosing me, wanting me, in complete and total command of herself and this moment. It’s more than desire; it’s profound awe.

I reach up and cup her cheek, my thumb tracing the faint curve beneath her eye, my voice a reverent rasp as I look up at her, “I dream of this. You.”

She closes her eyes for a single beat; a small, subtle acknowledgment of the weight of my words, before opening them again.

She breaks our eye contact just long enough to reach to the bedside table drawer beside her, pulling out a small, square foil packet. Her eyes don't leave mine as she tears it open, a final, beautiful act of maturity and mutual care. Her fingers, cool and precise, roll the latex down my length.

Then, she lowers herself.

The initial pressure is slow, breathtakingly deliberate. A sharp, delicious intake of breath escapes her. The warmth of her envelops me; a single, perfect seal that feels like heaven after weeks of painful separation. I feel the smooth slide of our skin connecting, the slight gasp of air leaving my own lungs. She settles fully onto me, her weight familiar and grounding, her muscles tensing around me. The sensation is immense. I’m hit by a torrent of pure, concentrated relief and love.

The rhythm starts slowly, deep and incredibly sensual. Belly holds the pace, her eyes closed, her head tipped back, her body controlling the precise, measured friction. She sets the tempo, commanding the motion. I am utterly dismantled, my hands gripping her hips, offering support but no direction. This complete surrender is a profound, new pleasure for me–the deepest sexual awakening I’ve ever known. The chaos in my brain–the study schedule, the worry, the distance–shuts down completely.

She opens her eyes, which are glazed with passion, and brings one of my hands up, guiding it to the delicate bud between her legs. She rubs my knuckles against her sensitive peak, a direct, silent instruction that shatters my last remaining restraint. She is directing my touch, dictating my actions. Her control over me is absolute.

The combined sensation–our internal closeness, the external heat of my hand on her, the feeling of her body using mine as a tool for her own pleasure–is too much, too good. My breath hitches into a long, desperate grunt that echoes in the quiet room. A matching sound; a low, guttural moan, leaves her throat. She keeps her hand firmly locked over mine, pressing my knuckles down and dictating the exact rhythm and pressure of the stroke, making it clear she is in complete control of this intense, dual focus. I look up at her, utterly humbled by her command and her raw, incandescent desire, knowing I have finally given her the space to claim exactly what she wants.

"So fucking good, Belly," I manage, her name a strangled prayer on my lips.

Her eyes, fierce and focused, bore into mine. She increases the pace, the effort showing on her face, her determination electric.

"That's it, baby. Take what you need. Take everything," I gasp, my entire body arching beneath her, my back pressing into the sheet.

The simple permission spurs her on. Her control remains absolute, but her pace becomes frantic, driven by a raw, mutual need that acknowledges our long separation and the weight of this moment. The sounds we make are purely elemental–strained whispers, low moans, heavy, broken breathing.

We tumble over the edge together, our combined release a vast, seismic wave that washes away all the stress of the distance, the misunderstandings, and the entire academic world. Her body collapses onto mine, damp and heavy. There is no lingering tension in her shoulders, no hesitant question in her eyes. Instead, she laughs, a soft, genuine, unburdened sound against my collarbone. I kiss the top of her head, my grip on her back no longer desperate, but steady and sure.

Belly

Something has shifted.

I’m still relishing the afterglow of our lovemaking, but my thoughts are going a mile a minute.

That was the first time–the absolute first time–that I have ever taken the lead. Not just in initiating, but in setting the entire pace and demanding the action. I had expected to feel awkward or silly, but when I looked down and saw Conrad’s eyes glazed over, totally lost, with his body responding exactly to my command, a small, surprising tremor of power had gone through me. Is this what Conrad feels every time he takes charge? The feeling of reaching up and claiming exactly what I wanted is a fierce, unexpected thrill.

Take what you need. Take everything. His words replay in my mind over and over. Conrad’s words during sex have always been a live wire, short-circuiting all my thoughts, but these words ignited something else in me; something deeper, something I can’t quite put my finger on.

I want to ask him what he’s thinking, to tell him how incredible that felt, but a deeper instinct tells me to be still. I can feel his brain running just as fast as mine is, and I need him to be the first to speak. To name this.

I feel his hand lift from my hair and settle gently on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze that makes me shiver in anticipation. He clears his throat.

“Belly,” he begins, his voice still thick with the aftermath, but already regaining that steady, Conrad rhythm. “About…this.”

"I know," I murmur, keeping my voice soft, offering him the space to continue without pressing.

He takes a slow, deep breath. "Listen. That dream I had…” He tightens his grip on my shoulder, a gesture that’s half-fear, half-confession. "It was about control.”

“Control.” I repeat slowly, “My control…over you?”

“Y-yeah.” He lets out a shaky breath that sounds like a laugh. “Well, not just yours, but mine.”

I pull back just enough to look at him, my brow furrowed.

He pauses, and I know he’s gathering his courage. "When I'm at school, I feel like I have to be in charge of everything–my grades, my stress, my schedule, all of it. And when we…make love, I default to taking charge because... well, I guess, it’s all I’ve ever known. But tonight–when you took over, when you told me what to do, when you claimed it–I felt this…this sense of relief."

He finally turns his head slightly, his mouth brushing my hair. "Belly, I need you to understand: I love taking charge. But sometimes, especially now, I have this need for you to be the one who carries the responsibility. To make the choices. And when you did that just now, I wasn't just turned on. My brain finally went silent. It’s like… I could finally, truly relax."

I lift my head and look up at him. "Conrad," I whisper, his name catching in my throat. My deepest insecurity–that I’ll never be good enough for him–is completely shattered. He isn't pushing me away. He doesn't need me to be small or gentle; he needs the fierce, independent part of me that’s always been there.

"You were afraid I'd think you were weak," I finish, stating the obvious truth.

He doesn't deny it. "I am afraid. But when you look at me like that... like you did just now... I know you won't break me."

I reach up and touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I’m strong enough," I say, my voice steady. "I know I'm a little… inexperienced, and I might be awkward, but I will never hurt you, Conrad. And I'll never think you're weak for trusting me."

"Okay," he breathes, the sound immensely relieved. "Then we need to be clear." He pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair. "If I need you to lead, I'll tell you. And if I don't say anything, but you feel that urge again... you just take it, Belly."

I pull back just enough to see his eyes. "I can do that," I agree, meeting his gaze intensely. "I will take it."

"Good," he says, his thumb tracing a slow circle across my infinity necklace. "Because with you in charge sometimes, I can actually focus on just this."

-

The weeks that immediately follow that perfect weekend set a new routine for us. The emotional static that had built up in the distance–fueled by unspoken needs and assumed inadequacies–is finally gone. I had finally admitted that I was afraid I wasn't smart enough for his new life, and he had simply taken my face in his hands and reminded me that I was his life.We had named the thing, and by naming it, we had robbed it of its power. 

Now, our connection isn't just surviving the distance anymore; it’s thriving on it.

I keep up my momentum from volleyball season. I don’t stop studying, but the frantic urgency is gone. I put in the hours for my SAT prep and applications because they’re my goals, not because I feel I have to earn my spot in Conrad's world. I make it a point to go out with Taylor and my other friends every week. I’m busy, and it feels incredible.

Conrad is busy, too. He stays fully immersed in his demanding pre-med life. He misses calls; I miss texts, but neither of us freak out. We trust that the space between us is filled not with doubt, but with mutual commitment.

This exploration of the two sides of Conrad–the leader and the one who surrenders–gives our long-distance intimacy a thrilling new structure. When we're together, we alternate. There are moments when he is his usual decisive self, and those moments are familiar and fiercely loved. But then there are the new times, when he says, "I need you now, Belly," and I step up and claim the direction with the firm assurance I found that first night. It adds a fascinating layer of performance and trust to our relationship; a silent, powerful contract that keeps the intensity high and our emotional connection rock-solid.

It’s this rock-solid foundation–the total, articulated trust in each other–that makes the world outside our relationship feel less threatening, and even, surprisingly, welcoming.

A funny thing happens with Agnes. When I visit Conrad over the next few weekends, she and I start developing a genuine, albeit limited, friendship. She texts me about a funny professor, or I ask her about a good study playlist. She is sharp, funny, and incredibly kind. She’s no longer a competitor; she’s proof that Conrad’s life in Baltimore is healthy and full, which makes me feel more secure, not less.

-

One Saturday morning, Conrad and I are heading to his favourite tiny coffee shop off campus when we bump right into her.

“Hey, Belly! Conrad!” Agnes calls out, waving from a table by the window, her red hair bright in the sunlight. “Want to join me? I’m drowning in organic chem right now.”

We grab the two empty chairs across her. Conrad immediately starts discussing a complicated equation with her, their heads bent together over her notebook. Instead of the familiar cold stab of jealousy, I just smile. I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Taylor. Guess who I'm getting coffee with? My boyfriend and his college bestie. It's actually really nice.

I look up from my phone, catching Agnes' eye. "Hey, Agnes, before I forget, I owe you about a hundred espressos," I say, leaning forward slightly. "That advice you gave me on framing my main college application essay? It completely changed my focus. It's actually good now, thanks."

Agnes smiles, taking a sip of her latte. "No problem! You got this, Belly. Just remember to let them see the actual you, not just the student version."

Conrad looks up from the chemistry notes, confused. "Wait, you two text about her college essays?"

Agnes laughs, nudging his arm playfully. "Yep. Someone has to make sure Belly gets into a good enough school to visit you every weekend, right?"

Conrad just watches us; a slow, relaxed smile finally spreading across his face. It’s a wide, open, and completely unburdened expression. He reaches for my hand under the table and gives it a warm squeeze. The scene isn't a threat; it's a testament to the stability we've built. Agnes is simply his classmate, and I am simply his.

Chapter Text

November-December, 2023

Belly

The end of November arrives, pulling us all back to Boston for Thanksgiving. Last year’s celebration had been thick with unsaid things: the looming threat of Susannah's illness and just pure emotional overload. Conrad and I had spent the day in a tight, protective bubble of tension, our shoulders perpetually tense.

This year, the difference is immediate and profound. Susannah is a constant, visible source of joy. Her laughter doesn’t just ring, it breaks over the noise of the house like clear chimes, as she marches us all into the kitchen. Even Adam is here this year, and while the dynamic is still complicated, the absence of mortal fear makes everything easier.

We gather around the long dining table. The food is incredible, as always. The turkey is golden, the stuffing is steaming, and the candles cast a soft, forgiving light over the polished mahogany. When the time comes, Susannah, her eyes shining with unshed happy tears, raises her glass.

"To the Conklins and the Fishers," she says, her voice strong and steady. "And to the simple, unbelievable joy of being together."

It’s the same toast as last year. But this year, it lands not as a desperate plea to savour a fragile moment, but as a genuine, secure blessing.

Conrad, sitting beside me, reaches for my hand as he always does during the toast. Last year, his grip had been a desperate, white-knuckled clutch, as he had to physically stave off a panic attack. This year, his grip is solid, steady, and warm. It’s the hand of a man who has fought his demons and won a measure of peace. When his eyes meet mine over the rim of my glass, there’s not fear, but deep gratitude.

We settle the glasses back down, and the easy chatter resumes.

Jeremiah is the first to speak, leaning forward enthusiastically. "Seriously, Bells, you're kicking butt this year. Your college essays must be insane. Are you still dead-set on Sports Psych?"

"Yeah, I think so," I say, feeling the familiar warmth of his support. "I got a pretty good review from my English teacher on the personal statement. It's about volleyball, actually–the whole senior season."

"About time you wrote about something other than your feelings," Steven jokes, stealing a roll.

"Hey!" I counter, flicking a napkin at his head. "No, it's about strategy and effort. It's about being on the court and actually commanding the mental space. It felt like the right thing to write."

Susannah watches me, her expression soft but intensely focused. She lets the conversation pause naturally as Adam and Steven start debating the merits of Princeton’s basketball program. When the noise level drops, she gently steers the focus back to Conrad and me.

"You two," she says, leaning her chin on her hand, her eyes twinkling with that deep, familiar love. "You both look so much lighter this year. Happier. That's all I could ever ask for."

She looks straight at Conrad. "But I have to ask, Connie. You must be under so much pressure. With all of that studying and responsibility, are you actually finding moments where you can just... breathe?"

The direct question cuts through the chatter and lands right where our secret lives. Conrad doesn't hesitate. He squeezes my hand once, his thumb pressing into my palm.

"Yeah. I’m good, Mom.” He says, his voice low and sincere. “I’ve really learnt to stop trying to control everything and just let go.”

He looks at me as he says the last word. His eyes, usually guarded, are wide and honest, and the casual phrase–let go–hits me with the force of a command. A quick, involuntary flush rises from my collarbone to my cheeks, and I feel the heat settle low in my stomach, a thrilling reminder of our new, intimate dynamic. I manage to hold his gaze, but the air is suddenly thick and charged.

Susannah smiles, satisfied. "That's wonderful, honey. That's the key to everything."

"It is," Conrad agrees, still looking at me, a tiny, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He glances across the table at the heavy, cast-iron bread basket, which is currently sitting near Steven. "Hey Steven, could you pass the bread basket?"

Steven grabs the heavy basket and begins sliding it along the table toward Conrad, meaning it must first travel right past me. As the basket reaches my space, Conrad leans forward slightly, interrupting the movement with his gaze fixed only on me. "Belly, it’s a little heavy, you think you can handle that?"

"Yeah, don’t drop it, Bells.” Steven mutters, oblivious to the budding tension between us.

I take the weight of the iron in my hands. The word–handle–hangs in the air between Conrad and me; a private, loaded innuendo that refers to much more than warm bread. I know exactly what he's talking about: the responsibility, the heat, and the power. The tantalising anticipation of our privacy later makes my pulse jump.

Susannah finally notices the charged silence between us. "What's with the intensity over the bread?" she asks, laughing. "Belly, are you even going to eat that?"

I meet Conrad's gaze, my thumb sliding slowly over the warm, rough texture of the cast iron. I keep my voice light for the room, but my eyes are only for him.

"Yeah, I’m still pretty hungry," I say, my tone smooth and steady, accepting his challenge. Then I look pointedly at Conrad. "I just can’t decide whether to put the cranberry sauce on top of the turkey, or underneath. What do you think?” I bat my lashes at him, and his eyes darken in response. The slight smirk on his face vanishes, replaced by a sudden, intense concentration that draws a faint line between his brows. He clearly recognises the shift in power.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Jeremiah leans over him, completely missing the subtext. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're talking about structural integrity, Bells. Cranberry sauce always goes on the bottom."

He gestures with his fork, intent on his explanation. "It acts as a buffer for the dryness of the turkey, but more importantly, it's the foundation. You build the turkey on the sweetness, not the other way around. Otherwise, the whole bite slides off. You need a solid base."

Jere finally pulls back, satisfied with his culinary advice. Conrad doesn't look at his brother. He leans in slightly, moving just enough so his lips are beside my ear, and whispers, his breath warm against my skin, “You heard him. Gotta keep it nice and wet, Belly.”

He withdraws and smiles quickly–a smile meant only for me–before turning to politely thank his brother. The conversation continues around us–loud, normal, and utterly meaningless–while the silence between Conrad and me screams with the promise of later.

-

‘Later’ comes hours after dinner. The house is a chaos of football on TV, too much pie, and loud family chatter. In the kitchen, Jeremiah is trying to convince my mom to make a third round of coffee, his voice dropping into a dramatically serious tone as he puts the final dustings of icing sugar on his latest creation.

“Laurel, this Spiced Pumpkin Cake needs a solid caffeine pairing! It’d be a crime against the whole season of autumn not to.” He insists, while she playfully swats him away with a dish towel.

Meanwhile, Steven and Adam are sitting tensely on the couch, arguing loudly over a questionable referee call, with Steven shouting, “He was clearly down! You’re just biased because the quarterback went to your precious alma mater!”, while Adam just shakes his head, refusing to look away from the screen.

Susannah is settled on the arm chair, a cozy blanket draped over her lap and a quiet smile playing on her lips as she watches the noise unfold. 

Conrad catches my eye from across the living room and nods subtly toward the hallway near the stairs.

A few minutes later, I slip into the coat closet. It's dark and smells like old wool and pine. He follows, pulling the heavy door closed, plunging us into absolute darkness.

He wastes no time, his mouth finding mine instantly. The kiss is fierce; a quick, necessary burst of passion that reminds us, in this house full of family history, that we have a powerful history and future of our own. He presses me against the wall, his body fitting perfectly into mine. It's awkward, cramped, and wonderfully urgent.

"We have to be quiet," He says quietly, in between kisses.

"I know," I whisper against his mouth, breathless.

“Turn around.” He grunts, and the heat of the command goes straight to my core.

I pivot on my heels, the soft carpet muffling the sound. The motion brings me chest-to-coat and immediately replaces my sight with thick, scratchy wool. The darkness is absolute, pressing in around us, allowing no focus but the feeling of his hands sliding under my sweater, mapping the curve of my waist. I can’t see his face, but I feel the ragged exhale of his breath against the back of my neck.

He presses me against the hanging coats; they offer a strange, cushiony support, smelling faintly of cedar and winter. The cramped space means our movements are minimal; precise. He leans into me, his body hard and steady, his leg moving between mine, anchoring me, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against my thigh.

He dips his head, his mouth leaving a scorching trail down the nape of my neck and shoulder, and I have to bite back a moan–the sound would be muffled by the coats, but the fear of being heard makes the pleasure sharper and more immediate. I brace my palms flat against the coats in front of me, fighting for silence and stability.

Then, his hands leave my waist, reaching forward around my sides. I feel the slight tug of him quickly undoing the button and zip of my jeans, followed by the slide of denim and underwear being urgently pulled down to my thighs. The exposure in the cold air is a sharp shock.

Then, he pauses. I hear the quiet, almost imperceptible rip of a foil packet–a momentary, necessary interruption that only amps up the desperate tension. His hand slides down my thigh; a quick, smooth motion as he puts the condom on in the darkness.

He doesn't hesitate for a moment. He grabs my hips, his fingers digging into the soft skin there, and with a single, powerful thrust, he drives deep inside me. The shock of the invasion is breathtaking–a massive, silent impact that makes my forehead hit the wool coats in front of me. I gasp, swallowing the sound as he begins to move.

He pulls back slightly, then leans his head to my ear, his breath hot. “You’re being so fucking good right now, Belly. So quiet.”

His pace instantly doubles–hard, fast, and desperate, making the coats shift slightly against the wall. A soft, involuntary whimper catches in my throat, but I clamp my jaw instantly, swallowing the sound before it can fully materialise. He pulls me tighter against his hips, burying his face in my hair. “Don’t move, baby,” he whispers, the sound ragged. “Just take it for me, like a good girl.”

He is relentless, driving into me again and again with a frantic, desperate rhythm. Every muscle in my body is clenched, waiting for the sudden creak of a floorboard outside the door, but the thrill of the risk fuels the fire between us. His hips pump against mine, a hard, fast motion that is incredibly efficient and incredibly hot. It’s a private, wild celebration of how far we’ve come–a secret explosion of us in a space designed to hide nothing but hats and coats.

He whispers, his voice thick with the final stretch, “Let me feel you come all over me. Squeeze me tight.”

His pumping accelerates one last, powerful time. We find our release together, in an explosion so intense it leaves his muscles shaking against my back and my breath escaping in short gasps.

A deep, satisfied silence descends upon us. He remains pressed tight against my back for a long beat, his breathing ragged. Then, without a word, his hand loosens from my hip and finds my cheek, his thumb gently wiping away the dampness there. He presses his forehead against the back of my neck–a quick, solid act of centering tenderness–before finally settling, his arms wrapping around my waist, holding me securely until our heartbeats return to a slow, steady rhythm.

–

The weeks fly by. The holidays become an expected, comforting reality rather than a source of stress. Christmas this year isn't the two days of stolen isolation we had planned last year, which had felt necessary to heal the rawness of dealing with Susannah’s illness. This year, our lives are too full for that. Conrad has exams and final projects, and I have college applications and winter break activities.

We spend the actual holiday with our respective families, but we manage to steal a full twenty-four hours together in between Christmas and New Year's. We don't need the elaborate plans or the intense, focused attention we did before.

It’s a lovely, simple celebration: we exchange gifts, curl up watching movies, and just be together, effortlessly. There are no dramatic confessions or tearful moments–just the quiet, deep certainty of a love that has survived distance and fear.

-

Conrad

New Year's Eve this year feels like the definitive end of one good chapter and the auspicious start of the next. Taylor, always excessive, throws the kind of party that makes her house feel like a crowded, vibrating nightclub. The air is warm and thick with music, cheap beer, and a dozen different colognes.

I spot her and Belly near the kitchen immediately. They look amazing, shimmering under the pulsing party lights. Belly is wearing a silver sequined top that makes her skin glow, her hair loose and dark against her shoulders. Taylor is laughing–a loud, unapologetic sound that cuts right through the thumping bass. They’re moving to the music, comfortable and easy in their element.

I push through the thick crowd, reaching the edge of the kitchen counter where she's dancing. I don't try to talk over the music; I just reach out and hook a finger into the back belt loop of her jeans, spinning her around.

Her eyes widen when she sees me, her face lighting up in a brilliant smile that eclipses the silver sequins. She leans in, shouting over the music, "You’re here! Happy New Year!"

I grab her by the waist and pull her tight against me for a quick, hard kiss that conveys everything the noise won't let us say.

"You look incredible," I shout back, my mouth close to her ear, "and you’re all mine after midnight."

Her eyes flash, bright with challenge and immediate heat. She reaches up, her bangled hand catching the back of my neck to drag my mouth back down for a second, much fiercer kiss before pulling away with a triumphant, knowing grin.

I release her back to the music, giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. I flash her a quick, serious look–a silent reminder of what's waiting for us later–before heading toward the living room to grab a drink.

Last time I was at a party like this–Halloween of last year–it was a blur of fear. I was a ghost, hovering in the doorway, terrified I’d blink and realise the whole thing–Belly choosing me, us being us–was a dream I'd wake up from. I felt this desperate, paralysing need to keep her in sight, to clutch the moment before it dissolved.

This time, that paralysing fear is gone.

I watch Belly dance for a full minute with a drink in my hand, her movements loose and joyful, and I don't feel a flicker of panic. I feel solid. I feel secure. She’s mine, not because I’m the centre of her attention, but because she chooses me, even when she's completely lost in the moment.

I let her go.

I find Steven near the makeshift bar, and we fall into the comfortable rhythm of old friends–catching up on his college drama, complaining about the sheer difficulty of our majors. Later, I join Jeremiah and Cam, who also flew in for the holidays, for a chaotic game of beer pong in the garage. Jeremiah and I haven't talked much about my life at school, but tonight, the conversation flows easily. We're just brothers, laughing at Cam's spectacularly bad aim. It's the first time in my life I've felt this completely present in a social setting that didn't involve the beach or my immediate, anxious focus on Belly.

The night flies by, effortless and fun. The knowledge that Belly is somewhere in the house, happy and whole, gives me the quiet confidence to move through the party with ease. Just as the music fades slightly and people start yelling for the countdown, Belly's hand slips into mine.

"Found you," she says, her voice husky from yelling over the music. She's flushed, her eyes bright, and her hand is warm.

I pull her through the crowd toward a quieter spot near the window, giving us a little space. I look down at her, and the weight of the last four months–the stress of school, the fear of losing our connection, the relief of seeing her thrive–converges into a single, overwhelming realisation.

She's finishing high school. She's applying to college. Soon, she'll be an adult; fully formed and ready to step into her own future. I want to give her everything she's ever wanted, everything she deserves.

I squeeze her hand, my heart pounding a strong, steady rhythm against my ribs. This year. This year marks the turning point. She’s unstoppable, and I want to be the one standing beside her as she takes over the world. I want to celebrate her. I want to give her a moment that’s entirely about her future, her achievements.

The crowd roars.

"Ten!"

"Nine!"

I lean down, looking straight into her eyes, communicating the depth of my commitment without words.

"Three!"

"Two!"

"One!"

Our mouths meet exactly at midnight; a triumphant, passionate kiss that seals our future. As the noise of the party explodes around us, a clear, beautiful thought crystallizes in my mind, forming a definite plan for the moment she walks across that graduation stage in six months. It will be the start of everything.

I pull back, pressing my forehead against hers; a slow, certain smile spreading across my face. I have a trip to plan.

Chapter Text

April, 2024

Belly

The three-way mirror in the back corner of Threads is officially Taylor’s favourite torture device. The fluorescent lights are brutally honest, and the dressing room is small, but Taylor is completely in her element. She sits perched on the low ottoman, holding a shimmering length of seafoam green fabric like it’s a prop in a theater production.

"Okay, so this one is cute," Taylor declares, not looking at me. "But it's 'Beach House Belly.' We're so past 'Beach House Belly.' We need 'Sports Psych Major Takes No Prisoners Belly.'"

I smooth the pale pink satin of the dress I’m currently trying on over my hips, sighing. "I don't know, T. I feel like 'Takes No Prisoners Belly' has been a little busy with finals prep lately."

"Please. That's just a cover story. I know the truth." She tosses the green fabric aside. "Look, ever since Thanksgiving, you carry yourself differently. It’s like all the tension finally snapped, and now you walk around knowing something the rest of us don't. That dress has to reflect the fact that you, Isabel Conklin, have officially handled the most emotionally unavailable boy in America."

The word handled instantly brings the heat back to my cheeks, pulling me straight from the mall back to the cold, coat-filled hallway and Conrad's low whisper.

"It's just... we're good," I say, my voice dropping. I pull off the pink dress and grab the next contender: a heavy, cobalt blue monstrosity with stiff ruching. "When we're together, it's–"

"I know it's good," Taylor interrupts, standing up to help me unzip the back. Her voice softens as she looks at my reflection. "But it’s also different, Belly. Before, it was beautiful but fragile. Now, it's like someone gave you the keys to the engine room. You know what I mean?"

I step out of the cobalt blue. "Yeah. That’s exactly what I mean. I’m not worried about him shutting down anymore. Because I know I can–" I hesitate, fiddling with the thin strap of the camisole I’m wearing. "I know I can ask for what I need, and he doesn't see it as a reflection of his own failure. He just... gives it to me. And sometimes, he asks me to take the whole thing."

Taylor nods slowly, her expression serious. "And that's the scary part, right? Actually using that power?"

"It's less scary and more... intense," I admit, reaching for the next dress, "Sometimes, when he asks me to take charge–and I really do–it's this pure thrill. But then I get paranoid that I’m enjoying the control too much, or that I’m going to mess it up because I don't know any of the... protocols."

"Protocols?" Taylor laughs, pulling a velvet dress from the hanger. "Belly, you don't need a manual. You two are just navigating what makes you both feel safe and wanted. Look, you're the one who’s got her head deep in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy reading lists–you know better than anyone that this is just ‘trust’ with a different uniform."

She pauses, holding a heavy garment bag. "You’ve always been worried about being strong enough for him, B. But sometimes, being strong is just being the person he can let go for. And you are that person."

The sentiment lands right. I feel the warmth of Taylor's truth settle in my gut, melting away some of the paranoia. I grab the discarded blue dress and toss it onto the chair. "Okay," I say, my voice steady and firm, "If I'm the person he can let go for, I need a dress that screams 'leave it all at the door, baby'." I wiggle my eyebrows at her, grinning. "That blue dress has to go. Next, please."

The next fifteen minutes are a blur of tulle and sequins that either make me look like a Disney princess or a poorly wrapped present. We are laughing so hard Taylor almost falls off the ottoman when I model a neon yellow frock.

"Seriously, Taylor, what are we going to do about next year?" I ask, pushing aside a rack of hangers, the mood suddenly quiet. "I mean, you’ll probably be in New York, and if I end up in Maryland–it’s only a few hours away, but..."

"It’s going to suck," Taylor finishes easily. "But we're still Belly and Taylor. We’ll survive the distance, no matter where we both end up. We have to. Who else is going to stop you from wearing something that clashes this aggressively with your skin tone?"

I retort, leaning against the dressing room door. "I can handle my own colour palette, thank you. Besides, my focus is on much more complex things these days. But enough about me, how are things with Steven?" I watch her face, knowing that the question immediately shifts the tone. "You two seem incredibly solid."

Taylor picks up a sequined hanger, turning it slowly. "We are. It’s almost boringly good, actually. We had those few little fights last fall–you know, the usual power struggle stuff–but we figured it out. Now, it feels like we’re just... cruising."

She looks up at me, a tiny frown forming. "Sometimes I worry about that. You and Conrad went through this whole intense thing, and you came out of it stronger, like you earned this clarity. Steven and I are just easy. We built this whole thing on the side of your relationship, not on some huge history. We don't have the drama. What if ‘easy’ means we don't have the foundation to last once I get to NYU? What if we just fade out because we don't have a battle to remind us why we want to be together?"

"T," I say, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around her. "You’re comparing the beginning of a healthy relationship to a trauma bond, which isn’t fair."

She hugs me back fiercely. "I know. But what you and Conrad have–it's just so deep. It’s like some epic, infinity soulmate shit that’s written in the stars, Bells. You two are it.”

"It is epic," I admit, pulling back. "But your foundation is built on two people who genuinely love each other, Taylor. You don't need a life-and-death struggle to prove your commitment. You just need to keep choosing each other. And you and Steven are masters of the slow, steady choice."

Taylor smiles, relief easing the tension around her eyes. "Okay. That’s fair. Thank you." She tosses the sequined dress toward the rejection pile. "Right. Enough emotional processing. Back to the mission."

The moment is interrupted when a sales associate glides past and pauses the rack right in front of me, revealing a gown that stops me cold. It’s a dazzling, column-cut dress–not a bright colour, but pure, liquid silver, reflecting the fluorescent light like a disco ball. The front is sleek and simple, but the entire back is an elegant, plunging cutout.

"Try this," Taylor commands, her voice dropping to a serious whisper. "This is the one, Belly. This is your power dress."

I take the hanger. The silver fabric is surprisingly heavy, slick and cool against my skin. Stepping into it, I feel an instantaneous transformation. The dress fits me like a second skin, bold and unadorned. I turn to look in the mirror, and the back–the long, daring line of exposed skin–is the first thing I see.

I’m not seeing "Beach House Belly" or the nervous girl who’s constantly worried about making a mistake. I’m seeing the woman who knows how to handle heavy things, who is ready to anchor someone else, and who knows exactly what it means to take the lead.

"I can handle this," I murmur, not to Taylor, but to my own reflection.

Taylor just smirks, crossing her arms. "I know. Now, go show Conrad you're the main event."

-

Conrad

Prom season hits different this year. I pull up to Belly’s house, feeling a familiar, nervous excitement–the kind that washes over you just before you’re about to ace a final or jump into a cold ocean.

Last year’s prom was a dizzying rush of pure, desperate relief. We were still reeling from the good news of Mom’s remission, and our relationship was new; fragile, and absolutely intoxicating. Every moment was about seizing the joy before it could be taken away. It was a celebration of survival; a fresh, electric start.

This year, the excitement is quieter, deeper. It's bittersweet. It isn't a fresh start; it’s the solid, heavy click of a door latching shut. This is the last time I’ll see Belly get dressed up for a high school ritual. I’m proud of the woman she’s becoming, but there’s a pang of nostalgia for the girl who used to chase me around the beach house all summer. This night is a beautiful farewell to the lightheartedness of childhood.

I take a deep breath and knock. The moment Laurel opens the door, I can hear Taylor’s voice from the living room, sharp and commanding, arguing with Steven about cuff links.

But then Belly walks out, and the noise of the house simply ceases to exist. My ears ring with a sudden, impossible silence.

I’ve momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

I knew she had started to shed the old version of herself over the last six months, trading the hesitant slope of her shoulders for a spine that demands attention. But seeing her now, standing at the bottom of the stairs, it’s like watching a star ignite.

The dress is floor-length and a shimmering, liquid silver. It's sophisticated, daringly open in the back, and it catches every shard of light from the chandelier. The fabric isn’t clothing; it’s a statement. It drapes like molten metal, clinging to the curves I know so intimately, pooling around her feet. It’s a dress for a woman who knows exactly who she is, not a girl hoping to be seen.

Her hair, usually secured in a messy ponytail, now falls in a heavy, dark curtain, pin-straight, grazing the silver shimmer of her dress. The sleekness frames the razor-sharp structure of her cheekbones, which are subtly dusted with a warmth that pulls the focus entirely to her eyes.

Her eyes. They’re deep, confident pools of summer brown, ringed with dark lashes that have no need for shyness. She’s wearing a lipstick the precise shade of a just-ripened berry, a colour that says maturity and confidence, not teenage sweetness.

My throat suddenly goes dry. I’ve known her my entire life. I’ve seen her in pyjamas, in torn T-shirts, in bikinis, and in my own oversized sweatshirts. But this–this hits me with the force of a revelation. This is no longer the old Belly I knew; this is the new Belly; the woman who showed me how to let go; the woman who demanded honesty when I was afraid to give it; the woman who taught me our strength could be mutual. The fierce realisation that I’ve fallen even more deeply in love with her crashes into me like a wave breaking on the shore, stealing my breath completely.

"Wow," is all I manage. It sounds clumsy, inadequate.

She blushes; a faint pink deepening the colour on her cheeks, but she doesn't drop my gaze. Her confidence holds. "It's a lot, right?"

"It's everything," I correct, stepping forward. I take her hand, raising it slowly to my lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. "You’re incredible."

–

The dance itself is bittersweet. The air is heavy with cheap perfume, sweat, and a slight melancholy. Graduation is still weeks away, but there’s a quiet realisation that the end of this era is here.

We dance, of course. We dance close and easy, a slow rhythm that requires no conversation. We move as two people who are securely anchored to each other. We dance, and we mingle; Belly weaving through the crowd and pulling me along with the easy authority of her hand in mine. After navigating a cluster of cheering seniors, she slows her pace and her hand tightens momentarily–a silent signal–as we arrive at the edge of the dancefloor where Steven and Taylor are already standing with a group of their friends

It’s clear that Belly and Taylor are the centrifugal force of their group. I watch them, a dizzying blur of sequins and inside jokes, pulling friends into the centre for photos. I catch Steven’s eye over Taylor’s bright yellow dress. He's leaning back against the wall, a half-smile on his face, a hand tucked casually into his pocket. His eyes meet mine, and there's a quick, knowing flicker: a silent understanding of what it means to be the one who's already crossed the threshold. We know the score, the look says. We know how quickly this ends, and we just stand here. We share a micro-nod, acknowledging our role as the steadfast witnesses to this beautiful, fleeting whirlwind.

When Belly and Taylor are pulled into yet another group photo with the entire volleyball team, I see Belly's smile is bright, but her movements are slightly over-exaggerated–a nervous energy she's channeling into a performance. I move closer to Steven.

"She doing okay?" Steven murmurs, his gaze tracking Taylor, who is shouting at a classmate to stop messing up the formation.

"She's feeling it," I reply, my eyes on Belly. I see the slight tension in her neck even from here. "She’s ready for the next thing. But she’s trying to get her closure."

He nods, pushing off the wall. "Yeah. It hits hard. Just gotta stay solid." I nod back at him and watch him make his way back to his girl.

When the DJ plays the final song–a horribly cheesy, nostalgic power ballad–Belly and I find each other in the centre of the floor. She doesn't search; she simply appears, melting into my chest. I tighten my arms around her, swaying slowly.

"This is it," she whispers against my neck. "The last one."

"It's a huge goodbye," I murmur, kissing her hair. "You’re doing great." I pull back just enough to look her in the eye. "Now, let's get out of here before one of the chaperones catches Steven trying to sneak out with the punch bowl."

-

Belly

The after-party is at some guy’s house near the river, but the noise and the crowds feel hollow after the intensity of the dance. I catch Conrad’s eye across the patio. He gives me a small, meaningful nod. It's time to leave.

We manage to escape without too much fuss, pulling away from the messy group, the laughter fading behind us. He drives me away from the party, and instead of taking the highway back to the city, he heads back toward my street.

"Why here?" I ask, turning to him in the dark. My voice is a low, sleepy exhale. My adrenaline from the night is finally draining away, leaving behind a deep, peaceful exhaustion.

He pulls into my driveway and cuts the engine. "Thought we’d make one last stop before we go to the hotel.”

He leads me around the side of the house, and I stop dead.

In the middle of the backyard, shielded by the dark privacy fence, is a small, perfectly set up picnic. There's a soft blanket spread out on the grass, two plush pillows, and a tiny, battery-powered string of fairy lights draped over the rose bushes, casting a magical glow. In the centre sits a thermos, a plate of fresh strawberries, and a glass bottle of sparkling cider.

"What? When did you...?" I finally manage, completely taken aback.

He grins, looking immensely pleased with himself. "I might have roped your mom into a serious covert operation this morning. She set the table and the lights, but it came at a price." He shudders dramatically. "I owe her two full weekends of garage organisation. That woman knows how to hold a man to his word."

I laugh; a delighted, genuine sound. The fact that he enlisted my mom's help is almost as romantic as the setup itself.

He leads me to the blanket, but before we sit, he reaches into a small backpack and pulls out a flat, velvet-wrapped object. My heart gives a sudden, sharp lurch.

"Prom night," he says, his voice soft and reverent. "It's supposed to be a memory you look back on forever, right?"

He opens the package. Inside is a beautiful, framed picture. It's not a picture of us, though. It’s a detailed star map, drawn on heavy, creamy paper. The map plots the night sky over this backyard, on the date of my eighteenth birthday. 

He runs his finger along the map, tracing a specific pattern of bright stars near the horizon. His touch is light on the paper, but heavy with meaning, like a promise being etched.

"See this group?" he whispers. "I had it professionally catalogued. This one cluster, this quiet little group right here. They’re far enough away that they’re completely separate from the noise of the rest of the sky. But they're bright. And they're always in perfect orbit around that thin crescent of the moon, never drifting away."

He looks at me, his eyes full of the same awe he had when he first saw me in the dress tonight. "I named it Isabel's Anchor."

My breath catches. It’s the most specific, personal thing anyone has ever given me. 

"It's a reminder," he continues, his voice thick with emotion, "that no matter how far you go–whether you follow me to Baltimore next year or fly halfway across the world–and no matter how much I may retreat behind a wall of textbooks and silence, you are my guiding constant. You anchor me. And I will always, always look for you."

Tears sting my eyes, a familiar warmth rising from my chest. 

Conrad didn’t give me flowers or candy. He gave me the moon and the stars. 

Chapter Text

May-June, 2024

Belly

The school gym is stiflingly hot; a chamber of uncomfortable plastic chairs and nervous excitement. For four years, this moment has felt like an abstract finish line. Now, sitting in the crowd, it feels real; loud with the frantic buzzing of poorly maintained fluorescent lights, but still utterly satisfying.

When my name is called, I walk across the stage with a sense of pure triumph. I’m not searching for a familiar face in the crowd or hoping for approval; I’m relishing the moment. I have achieved this, and the sense of accomplishment, built over months of hard work and self-discovery, is massive.

I break free of the receiving line, turning to the side door where I know my family is waiting.

Mom and Steven are the first to reach me. Mom pulls me into a long, quiet hug that smells like my favourite sweater. "My brilliant girl," she murmurs against my hair. "You owned that stage. I am so proud of you."

Steven gives me a rough, quick squeeze and messes up my hair, which is already starting to stick to my neck in the heat. "Finally done with high school, kid," he teases, but his eyes are genuinely shining. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his Polaroid camera. "Hold that diploma up, Bells! Let me get the money shot!"

The flash pops, briefly washing out the gym's fluorescent glow. Steven shakes the developing photo, his grin wide. Suddenly, Taylor is barrelling into me.

"Cinderbelly!" she screams, crushing me in a hug that smells like hairspray and excitement.

We pull back, our eyes locking. Taylor's always been the one stable constant of my teenage life–the only person who truly understood the messiness of my heart before Conrad. We’ve been inseparable since freshman year, when I met her standing in line for volleyball tryouts. She was cracking jokes about the coach's whistle, and I was trying not to throw up. Back then, I was just trying to find my footing, and she, with her sharp edges and savage loyalty, took me under her wing, becoming the unapologetic voice I needed. We've weathered disastrous haircuts; silly, screeching fights over boys and clothes, and the complete collapse of high school politics, but every challenge until now we’ve faced in the same hallway.

"I can't believe we're done," Taylor whispers, her voice suddenly shaky, the boisterous energy gone. Her eyes, usually so sharp and confident, are shining with unshed tears.

I grip her shoulders. "Hey. Don't go soft on me now. We've got the rest of the summer."

"Yeah, but then we’ll be like four hours away," she says, a genuine sadness crossing her face. "No more spontaneous pizza runs. No more after-school pedicure debriefs.”

"We'll do it over FaceTime," I promise, but the reality of the distance, even a few states away, hits us both. We look at each other, and it's like we see the ghosts of all the inside jokes, shared midnight snacks, and emergency five-minute calls that have shaped our entire existence. 

This is more than just friendship; she’s the second person who knows the combination to my emotional safe, the one who can tell my mood from the way I tie my shoes. This is the first definitive break in our lives, and I suddenly don’t know how I’m going to survive college without her.

"I’m going to absolutely miss you, B," she chokes out, pulling me into another hug that steals the breath from my lungs.

"Don't say it like that!" I tell her, my own voice thick and wet, clutching the back of her cap and burying my face in her shoulder. "I'll miss you more."

She pulls away, wiping her eyes quickly. "Okay, weep fest over. Let's get a picture. You and I look so hot in these robes, we're basically doing a disservice to the rest of the graduating class."

"Sure, Tay," I laugh, a short, wet puff of air.

"Steven! Get over here!" Taylor yells, grabbing my arm and pulling me close to her side. She instantly strikes a dramatic pose, her diploma held high. Steven groans but dutifully raises the camera and the flash pops again, capturing our twin grins.

She beams, plastering her signature confident grin back on. "Now go get your man. He looks like he's about to spontaneously combust with pride."

I pull back from Taylor, laughing and breathless, and then I see him. 

Conrad has been patient, waiting for the initial family chaos to subside. He's standing a few feet away, leaning against the pale yellow brick wall near the emergency exit; a quiet, solid presence against the backdrop of rushing parents. He straightens, then begins to walk slowly toward me, his attention unwavering, threading his way through the cluster of hugging families until he's right in front of me.

He stands tall and effortless, handsome in a perfectly tailored, dark navy suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly wide. His tie is still knotted precisely, defying the heat of the gym. His eyes–those intense, liquid green eyes–are filled with the kind of pride that always floors me. He’s not smiling wide, but the corners of his mouth are pulled up in a private, knowing curve that's just for me. He pulls me close, his hands immediately settling low and firm on my lower back as we share a quick, fierce hug that pulls me out of the noise and into his scent of cologne and fresh linen.

"I'm done," I breathe against his neck.

"You did it," he murmurs back, his voice low and solid against my ear. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumbs brushing the space between my shoulder blades.

"I knew you would," he says, his gaze sweeping over my face, the pride unmistakable. "You look amazing, Belly. Like you just conquered the world."

I shake my head; a dizzy, happy feeling washing over me. "I just graduated high school, Conrad. You're the one conquering med school."

He smiles that quiet smile of his. "This is a huge step. And you did it for yourself. I watched you work for this all year–you earned every second of that walk across the stage." He leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. "Now let's get out of this sauna. We have reservations, and I have plans for the rest of the night."

–

Conrad drives us to a quiet, upscale restaurant he booked, where my mom is waiting. It’s a simple celebration–just the three of us. The atmosphere is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic gym. It feels like the first truly adult meal of my life.

Mom keeps touching the corner of her eye with the side of her thumb; a small, subtle gesture that holds back her tears. Her usual analytical gaze is softened, unfocused on the details of the restaurant and fixed entirely on the girl across from her. She’s looking at me with a deep, aching tenderness that makes a lump form in my chest.

She catches my eye and offers a small, slow smile. "I just can't believe it, Bean," she says, setting down her fork. The delicate click of the silverware is loud in the quiet restaurant. Her voice is low, a little rough with emotion. "Just yesterday, you were seven years old, covered in dirt, arguing with Jeremiah about a popsicle."

My own throat tightens. I realise this isn't just my moment of transition; it's hers too. She's watching her last child step fully out of her nest. All the years of my awkwardness, my heartbreak, and my recent fight for independence flash through my mind, and I see the reflection of that entire journey in her gaze.

"You've worked so hard, sweetheart," She continues, her voice trembling slightly. "You found your voice, and you figured out exactly who you are. And I couldn't be prouder of the choices you've made."

She doesn't mention UMD, but the words hang in the air, a silent acknowledgment of my choice of college. 

The decision to attend the University of Maryland hadn't been simple; it was a compromise, a calculated risk. It had the strong academic program I needed for my future in Sports Psychology, but, more importantly, it was close enough to Baltimore–a mere 45 minute drive–to make the distance with Conrad manageable. It was the choice I made for myself, yet it was also the choice I made so I wouldn't have to choose between my future and my heart. She's just proud that I made the choice confidently, whatever it was.

Conrad, sitting beside me, squeezes my hand under the table, recognising the sacred, intimate moment between mother and daughter. He doesn't try to interrupt or fix it; he just provides a quiet, steady weight in the tension of the silence, his thumb gently tracing the line of my knuckles.

It’s a powerful feeling: being seen fully by the two most important people in my life. My gaze moves from my mom’s tear-stained eyes to Conrad’s calm profile. The warmth of his hand, the depth of her gaze–they converge on me; a complete map of my existence.

I feel loved for the girl I was, celebrated for the woman I am becoming, and completely, profoundly secure in the future I'm about to build. In this moment, under the low light of a graduation dinner, the old, separate worlds of my past and my future finally dissolve, leaving only this quiet, perfect core of belonging, and hope.

When the meal ends, Mom hugs me tight; a long, genuine embrace that says everything. 

"Now, go," she whispers. "Go celebrate the rest of the night."

The word go hangs in the air, weighted with more than just a well-wish. It's a blessing and a release. It’s the simple permission to celebrate tonight with Conrad, but it’s also her acknowledgment that this chapter of my life is closing; the tether is cut, and I'm free to walk into my own future.

–

Conrad and I don't talk much on the short drive, the earlier conversation with my mom having left a peaceful, deep silence between us. I stare out the passenger window, the streetlights zooming past in streaks of colour, and feel an incredible lightness–the weight of my old life finally gone, and the future opening up wide. 

It's a profound, quiet feeling of being on the precipice of my adulthood, and the silence feels less like a gap and more like the sacred space I need to process it all. I know he senses it. Midway through the drive, his hand finds mine on the console, his thumb resting gently on my pulse point; a warm, steady presence that says, I'm in this with you.

When we reach the hotel room, the door clicks shut, sealing us in. The city lights are a blurred, impressionistic glow beyond the large window. The formal wear–my graduation dress, his stiff suit–suddenly feels like a barrier, leftover from the world we just conquered.

Wordlessly, we begin to undress each other.

I go for his tie first, pulling the silk loose. He watches my hands, his eyes already dark with anticipation and so much love. I unbutton his shirt slowly, kissing the warm skin of his chest as I expose it. He shrugs out of the jacket, and I let it fall to the floor.

At the same time, his hands find the zipper of my dress. The fabric hisses as it slides down my back, pooled at my feet a moment later. We move with a synchronised, quiet urgency born of months of absolute commitment, needing to shed the formality and find the reality of each other.

When we are both free of the clothes, he pulls me to the bed.

He moves over me, his weight familiar and comforting, his eyes locked on mine. He doesn't move fast or hard; this isn't a frantic reunion. This is a deliberate, loving connection. He threads his fingers through mine, clasping both of my hands firmly above my head and pressing them gently into the pillows.

The connection is immediate, seamless, and unhurried. I feel the warmth of his skin against mine; the slick, velvet friction of our bodies moving together; the slow, rhythmic press of his hips. I focus on the sound of his breath, the low, steady thump of his heart against my chest. Every touch is a confirmation, not a question.

He moves slowly, deeply, his rhythm an exploration of our certainty. I can feel the pleasure building, sharp and clean, but the intensity of our eye contact is a vibrant, humming current between us that sparks an even deeper pleasure. It’s almost overwhelming. I want desperately to shut my eyes, to surrender fully to the pure sensation, but he holds my gaze, and I hold his.

His face is close, beautiful and shadowed by the dim light. I see every flicker of emotion–the tenderness, the concentration, and the deep well of love that darkens his pupils. The eye contact is a physical thing, a tether of absolute truth between us, forcing complete presence. It’s a silent acknowledgment that this moment, like our future, is built on shared vulnerability and total, deliberate honesty.

"Belly," he murmurs, his voice strained, a raw sound of pure need.

I gasp, my hips arching to meet his slow, deep thrusts. The pleasure is too powerful to contain, spreading through my limbs in warm waves. But I keep my eyes fixed on his. I watch the muscle in his jaw clench, the dilation of his pupils, and the sheer, unwavering weight of his devotion.

The build is long, intense, and profoundly sensual. It culminates in a deep, powerful shudder that racks his entire body; a vibration I feel through every point of contact that pulls a ragged cry from both of us. The power of our shared climax is immense–not just physical, but a definitive sealing of our bond.

He collapses onto me, still holding my hands, his sweat-damp forehead resting against my own. We lie there, catching our breath, two hearts beating rapidly against the sudden silence.

“I love you," I murmur into his shoulder, my voice heavy with contentment.

"I love you," he replies, kissing my hair.

He pulls me tightly into his arms, squeezing me as if to physically absorb the moment, before finally letting out a long, contented sigh and shifting his weight. He reaches over to the nightstand where he's discreetly placed a small box, wrapped in navy.

"I have something for you," he announces, pushing it into my hands.

"Conrad," I protest, “You already paid for dinner, and you got me this incredible room. You didn’t have to get a gift.”

"Yeah. I did," he insists, a smile playing on his lips, leaving no further explanation.

I let out a soft, amused sound–half sigh, half groan–and roll my eyes at his ridiculous generosity before I look down at the box in my hands. I unwrap it quickly. It’s a brand new, soft-cover French phrasebook.

"Trying to give me homework, Fisher?" I tease, flipping the cover.

"Open it," he instructs, his eyes twinkling. I spot a small, crisp note tucked into the very first page. I pull it out and read the words, my fingers trembling faintly around the paper's edge.

You'll need to brush up on your AP French. Our flight leaves on July 19. We're going to Paris.

I stare at the note, then back at the phrasebook, then at his face. My mouth falls open, completely speechless. My eyes, already bright from our earlier intimacy, fill with sudden, overwhelming tears.

"Paris?" I manage to whisper, the word catches in my throat.

He leans up on his elbow, his eyes loving and confident. "Yeah. I figured since we successfully survived almost two years of long distance, we deserve to celebrate the beginning of our no distance. No studying, no applications, just us. We're going to be adults, Belly. Let's see the world before we settle into our new life together."

I stare at the cover of the phrase book, unable to process the colourful photographs of the Seine and the Eiffel tower. He must have been planning this for months. That was the first, staggering thought. He’s been quietly building this moment of triumph for me, even while he’s been overwhelmed by mandatory labs, his rigorous study schedule and the punishing fortnightly routine of the eight months we just survived.

He didn’t just get me something; he built me a vision. The scope of it is a generosity that feels overwhelming. He didn't just promise me the stars, he’s taking me to see them from a new continent. This isn't a grand gesture; it’s a bold, selfless answer to the whispered desires of my heart; the small, restless parts of me that dream of escape and adventure.

I launch myself across the bed, burying my face against his neck, the phrasebook dropping onto the sheet. "Oh, Conrad," I cry, the sheer joy overwhelming me. "I don’t even–thank you.”

He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight against his damp skin. "You deserve it, Belly," he murmurs into my hair. "We deserve it."

He shifts us under the cool white duvet, pulling the scattered sheets up around us. We lie there, the faint city glow painting the room; Paris, an imminent reality. This isn't just a trip; it's the start of the next chapter of our life together.

-

The first few weeks of summer are spent exactly where they should be: back at Cousins. The days are long, lazy, and saturated with salt and sunshine. It feels like the reward for all our hard work. The reward, however, comes with a constant, bittersweet hum. We know this is the last summer we will all be here together in this easy, undivided way.

Jeremiah and Taylor have taken it upon themselves to be the group’s Chief Cohesion Officers. Jere plans elaborate theme nights and Taylor micromanages a detailed schedule of “mandatory group bonding activities”. A week in, even Steven starts initiating highly competitive, high-stakes poker nights. It’s slightly forced, sometimes exhausting, and profoundly appreciated. Conrad and I know they’re fighting the coming dispersion as much as we are.

This afternoon’s mandatory beach activity is beach volleyball. It’s less a sport and more a flailing comedy. Taylor and Steven are spectacular at arguing loudly after every single point. Jeremiah and Cam, despite Cam’s lack of natural athleticism, work together with seamless teamwork that makes them frustratingly effective.

Jere lands gracefully after a high set, and Cam immediately bumps their hips together in quiet celebration.

“Seriously, Taylor, you were clearly under the net on that serve!” Steven yells, spiking the ball hard into the sand across the net.

“You called that out! It was in! And your footwork is imaginary, Steven, just like your social life!” Taylor yells back, dusting sand off her neck.

Jeremiah, instead of engaging, just retrieves the ball, offering Steven a wildly enthusiastic, forced grin. "Great spike, Steven! Really high energy! Come on, team bonding! Let's get another point in!"

He takes the ball, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he leans his head down toward Cam’s ear. "Ten more minutes, then we sneak off. Sound like a plan?”

Cam nods immediately, his expression softening as he looks at Jeremiah. He murmurs something low and quick, his lips barely moving, the words completely swallowed by the sound of the surf. Jere’s composure breaks instantly; his cheeks turn a deep rose colour that has nothing to do with the sun.

I look over at Conrad, who’s caught the entire interaction too. His arm is resting lightly across my shoulders, his eyes softened with a genuine, silent fondness for his brother. We turn our gazes back to Jere and Cam–the two of them existing in their own beautiful, quiet world–and then sweep to Taylor and Steven, still entrenched in their furious debate. 

I feel the same quiet, heavy pang that registers in Conrad’s eyes–the shared understanding of what we’re watching. We all know, every single person out here, that this is the last of the effortless good days. The whole group is fighting to press this summer into a single, perfect memory before it bursts into the complex architecture of our separate adult lives. It’s beautiful, and sad, and intensely real.

Taylor finally walks over to us, dramatically wiping sweat from her brow. "This is exhausting. Let’s just ditch the ball and go sit by the water," she declares, her voice thick with fake exasperation and real melancholy. "We should be using our precious last few weeks to actually hang out, not watch Steven scream at me about imaginary boundary lines! In a month, Belly and Conrad are going to be too busy being cultured and chic in Paris to even send us a postcard."

The entire beach goes silent, the only sound the gentle rhythm of the waves. My heart jumps.

I whip my head around to look at Taylor. "Taylor!"

Taylor immediately claps both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with horrified realisation. She looks from me, to Conrad, to the rest of the silently gaping circle. "Oh my god. You haven’t told them?"

The silence breaks in an eruption of sound:

Steven is the first to react, dropping his shoulders dramatically. "You guys are going to Paris? And you didn't tell the brother who helped you haul the boxes out of your room two weeks ago? The injustice!"

Jeremiah's face breaks into a genuine, massive grin. "Paris! That’s amazing, Belly! Seriously! Okay, please try and sneak back some pain au chocolats for me."

Cam looks genuinely happy for us. "Wow, that's incredible! That is such great news, guys."

Taylor, standing beside me, looks sheepish, removes one hand from her mouth to give me a quick, frantic wave, and mouths a dramatic, silent “Sorry.”

Conrad tightens his arm around my shoulders and finally steps forward, his expression relaxed and amused by the chaos. "Alright, simmer down. We were going to tell you before Belly’s birthday next week. And yes, Steven, you're owed at least a postcard.” 

Jeremiah starts to open his mouth, and Conrad cuts him off smoothly, “And yes, Jere, we will get you some cans of French butter.” Jeremiah snaps his mouth shut, looking momentarily shocked, then breaks into a wide grin, as Conrad continues, “We leave on the 19th. I’ve had it planned since New Year’s Eve.”

He leans in and kisses the top of my head, completely unfazed by the sudden public revelation. "But the point stands," he tells the group, his voice cutting through the remaining noise. "We're gone for three weeks, then we go straight to UMD to move Belly in, so yes, we need to step up our beach time now. Go grab the towels, Jere."

-

My eighteenth birthday arrives with the kind of perfect, quiet beauty only summer in Cousins can provide. The morning is spent with pancakes piled high on a plate, and the evening brings about a small, intimate gathering on the back deck of the house. The low-tide air is cool, and the only light comes from a cluster of candles arranged on the patio table. The mood is warm and easy, filled with wine and cake, and the singing is loud and off-key. When the cheering dies down, it's time for the gifts.

Taylor, naturally, goes first. She slides a sleek, rectangular bag across the table. "This is a serious starter kit," she says, leaning in conspiratorially. "You're going to Paris, Belly. You can't just show up with lip gloss."

I open the bag to find a personalised makeup kit–high-end, organised, and complete with a gold mirror with a looping B engraved on it. The centerpiece is a tube of deep, bold, classic red lipstick. "The perfect Parisian shade," Taylor declares proudly.

Next is my mom. She hands me a small, worn paperback. It’s thin, with a faded blue cover and French text. "Happy Birthday, sweetie," Mom says, her eyes soft. "This is a book of Sonnets by Louise Labé. It's my original copy from college." She flips open the cover to a page marked with a dried rose petal. "She wrote about love that was messy and consuming, but always beautiful. I thought it was appropriate reading for Paris."

Steven slides his gift across; a very small, haphazardly wrapped, flat box. "These are for me," he announces, only half-jokingly. "I don't trust the French to not steal my sister. Or her luggage." Inside are a pack of Apple AirTags. "Slap one on your backpack, one in your wallet, and one in Conrad's bag. I need to know where to send the Marines if you two disappear."

Jeremiah hands me a clear, carefully tied box. Inside are a dozen perfectly round, colourful macarons.

"They're handmade," he beams, "My personal research into what the competition is like. Eat the real thing in Paris, and when you get back, I expect a detailed, annotated report on texture, flavour, and filling. We'll compare notes."

Then comes Susannah. She holds out a small, heavy piece of blue velvet.

"Happy Birthday, darling girl," she says, her eyes soft as she meets mine.

Inside the velvet is a vintage silver watch. It's unlike anything she usually wears–small, square-faced, and elegant. A classic, timeless piece.

"I bought this on my first trip to Paris after college," Susannah explains, tracing the watch's silver frame. "I always loved it, but it was just waiting for the right person to take it on new adventures. For you, Belly.” I look up at her, my eyes instantly filling with tears. The watch is elegant and delicate, the perfect mix of vintage charm and modern cool. I can't believe she's giving me something so personal and beautiful.

She just smiles at me, “Travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer, and I want you to never be afraid to go.”

The watch feels cool against my palm, a tangible, beautiful connection to her adventurous spirit. It’s a quiet, beautiful moment–her blessing to pursue the future. I slip the leather band onto my wrist and smooth the delicate silver frame with my thumb, gazing down at the watch face while a slow smile spreads across my face.

I catch Conrad’s eye across the table, and his gaze drifts down to something low beside his chair. He bends down and grabs a square box wrapped in plain brown paper. The sudden appearance of the package is a jolt; my smile falters as I realise he’s gotten me a present too. I start to lift a hand, a silent, protesting shake of my head–No, you’ve already done too much–but he just holds my gaze steadily, the corner of his mouth lifting in a brief, possessive smirk that says, You’re mine, and I get to spoil you. Deal with it. He hands me the box.

I throw him a look of pure, affectionate exasperation, the one that says, You are impossible, and I love you for it, but I can’t stop the heat rushing into my cheeks and the fluttering in my chest.

He hands me the box with a chuckle. I tear the paper off to find a beautiful, vintage-style film camera–sleek black leather and chrome, slightly weighty in my hands. It looks professional, serious.

"It's an absolute classic model," he explains, leaning closer so his words are just for my ear. "It takes incredible pictures. You can use your phone for snapshots, but I want you to use this for the important stuff. The things you want to remember exactly as they felt."

He reaches out and brushes his thumb across my cheek. "Time to start documenting our story, Belly. The adventures that belong only to us."

I look up from the sleek camera, my eyes meeting his, and the depth of my love for him settles over me. Across the table, Susannah raises her wine glass in a silent, knowing toast, while Mom, Taylor and Steven share soft, proud glances. Jeremiah, ever the loudest, just whistles, his grin wide and celebratory.

In this moment, surrounded by everyone I love, I feel the true, perfect weight of turning eighteen. I’m ready.

Chapter Text

July-August, 2024

Belly

Paris is everything the phrasebook failed to capture.

Our time here isn’t measured by a clock, but by the slow, delicious unfurling of the day.

The morning always starts late in our small, rented apartment in the Marais. The scent of sweet almonds and warm yeast from the boulangerie across the street is what finally pries our eyes open, not an alarm. We don’t stress over schedules. Instead, we linger in bed until the tiny kitchen table calls, drinking strong, black coffee and flaking the buttery layers of freshly baked croissants all over the antique linens.

Once we finally step out, the city becomes our only itinerary. Conrad is relaxed in a way I haven’t seen since we were kids. His academic intensity is completely diffused by the soft French air, replaced by a smile that comes easily and a laugh that tumbles out often. We spend entire afternoons just walking, getting wonderfully lost in cobbled alleyways where the noise of the main boulevards softens to a murmur.

My vintage camera, heavy and cool against my palm, is never far away. I don't point it at the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre; I point it at the simple, muted beauty that runs through the city's veins, recording the texture and light of our days. It captures moments that no postcard ever could: the way a patch of sunlight dusts the peeling blue paint of a door with its tarnished brass knocker; the sharp, perfect shadow of an iron balcony railing on the Rue de Rivoli; a street vendor's hands expertly arranging a bouquet of tulips at the Marché aux Fleurs. 

And sometimes, I turn it on us. I’ll pull it out to capture a candid shot of Conrad’s profile, his jaw soft as he watches the street, or ask a kind waiter to snap a quick photo of the two of us sharing a plate of escargots over glasses of wine. Or, I’ll perch the camera precariously on a stone railing by the Seine, setting the self-timer on burst mode to catch the dizzying, laughing moments after we spontaneously start dancing under a streetlamp. We pause to kiss under the moss-stained stone archway of a secret courtyard, the air smelling faintly of old stone and blooming jasmine, and the memory of that moment, sharp and clear, is now too on film.

There’s no rush to see anything. We are content to simply be. We spend an hour sitting on a cold stone bench in the Tuileries Garden, not talking; just watching the miniature sailboats drift on the pool, Conrad’s hand tracing the line of my collarbone and the city’s hum a gentle background track to our silence.

On crowded bridges, the sheer density of people only makes us lean closer, our shoulders pressing together; a small, perfect, private world carved out of the Parisian chaos. At dusk, we share a crêpe from a street cart, the sugar-sweet stickiness a perfect counterpoint to the city’s faded elegance, laughing when we inevitably get some on our nose. We are just two young people in love, seeing the world, and it’s glorious.

-

One evening, a week into our trip, we decide to get a little dressed up for a nightcap, a reward for a full day of walking through the Sorbonne and its surrounds.

I pull on my favourite black dress–the silk simple and smooth, the straps thin and delicate–and Conrad changes into a crisp white button up, tucking it into perfectly tailored cream trousers. He looks effortlessly put-together, and a sudden wave of heat hits me just watching his deft fingers fasten his belt buckle.

We wander the streets, hand in hand, until the sound of a lone saxophone, low and seductive, leads us down a winding alley and into a tiny, unmarked doorway. Inside, the air is thick, heavy with the scent of old leather, cigarettes, and sweet liquor. It’s a deep, velvet-lined cellar club where the jazz is live and the lighting is a sensual, dusky crimson.

We find two stools tucked into a back corner. The quartet plays a slow, mournful blues that I feel as phantom caresses all the way down my spine. Conrad leans in, his shoulder brushing mine, and the intense focus that’s been missing from his eyes for the past few weeks is back, but now directed entirely at me. He isn't studying; he’s simply absorbing.

He doesn't need to speak. His hand finds the bare skin of my knee under the table, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles; an intimate, silent conversation in the darkness. The melody grows slower, hotter.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough, barely audible over the music, "I can't believe this is real."

I lean my head against his shoulder, inhaling the perfect Parisian scent of him–a clean mix of sandalwood, coffee and the faint, sweet warmth of his own skin. The combination is instantly intoxicating, a sensory push that dissolves the last of my inhibition and leaves me focused only on the deep, humming current between us. I press my lips against the shell of his ear, the heat of the cellar making my skin feel flushed. "It is," I whisper back.

The tune shifts, pulling us in. Conrad stands first, offering his hand, and we move to a small, open space near the stage. We don't really dance; we sway, pinned close together by the slow, humid music. His large hands settle on the small of my back, drawing me in until I can feel the hard, definite line of his body against mine. I loop my arms loosely around his neck and tilt my head back, meeting his gaze through my lashes–a heavy, challenging look that asks for everything and apologises for nothing. His eyes are dark, burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the dim lights or the crowded room.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his hand–the same one that was coaxing goosebumps from my knee–now slides deliberately under the hem of my dress, resting warm and possessive against the skin of my lower hip, right where the curve of my body begins. It's such a brazen, intimate gesture in a public space that a sharp gasp catches in my throat. He smiles, a slow, knowing, utterly devastating smile, acknowledging the sudden, terrifyingly beautiful recklessness of the moment.

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I meet his gaze with a challenge. My hand–the one that had been resting on his shoulder–slips down, past his collarbone, and slides deliberately into the front pocket of his trousers. I grip the fabric, pressing my fingers hard against the distinct, rising ridge of his arousal.

The sudden, physical contact makes a low sound escape his throat, and the already thin space between us disappears. He leans into the angle I've created, shifting his weight until his hips are tilted perfectly into my hand's placement. We are pressed together hard, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, and I can feel the full, undeniable evidence of his desire pushing against me. The silence between us now feels like a physical thing, strained and vibrating with a buzzing tension.

We don't finish our wine. Conrad drops a few euros on the bar and takes my hand, the urgency of his grip a sudden, thrilling shock.

The walk back to our apartment is a blur–the cobblestones fly by, only we aren't really moving. We take ten steps, and then he pulls me violently into the shadow of a dark doorway, muffling my gasp with his mouth. His urgency is an electric current, fierce and demanding, as he shoves his tongue past my lips. My hands are instantly tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. The cool, damp stone of the ancient Parisian building presses against my back, heating the moment, grounding the dizzying sensation of his body against mine. We pull away only long enough to gasp for air, then search for the next shadowy alcove.

We find another patch of inky blackness between a shuttered bakery and an antique bookshop. This kiss is rougher, greedier. It's all tongues and teeth and shared breath. This time, his hand doesn't stay on my waist. It dives under the hem of my little black dress, rough against the smooth skin of my thigh, and cups the entirety of my ass. He squeezes once, hard, then uses the leverage to grind my hips against his, the force of the movement shocking and thrilling. My head tilts back, eyes closed as the world spins, and I think, Is this it? Is this what they mean by French kissing? The brazenness of it–the raw, public display of such desperate need–sends waves of heat washing over me.

This teasing is excruciating. My skin is tingling, my chest is heaving, and I feel a desperate, clawing need to be somewhere, anywhere private, right now. "Stop," I whisper, pulling away just enough to catch my breath. I step quickly to the curb, raising my hand. A taxi immediately pulls up.

Inside the cab, we don't even manage to sit normally. Before I can process it, Conrad is yanking a thick wad of bills from his wallet and thrusting it over the seat–a couple of hundred euros that he throws at the rearview mirror–a silent, exorbitant apology to the cab driver for what we're about to do. We lunge at each other, bodies crashing back onto the cold, sticky vinyl seats, our mouths finding each other again with a mutual, hungry force. We can't keep our hands, mouths, and tongues away from each other. I'm dimly aware that the poor cab driver is definitely watching us in his rearview mirror, a silent spectator to our frantic desperation, but neither of us can stop. We are too far gone to care about being embarrassed.

Conrad uses his height and weight, pressing me against the cab door, his tall frame caging me in. His lips are heavy and urgent, grinding against mine until they ache, and I taste the metallic tang of lust on his tongue. One free hand reaches up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers tangled in my hair, making sure my skull doesn't knock against the window during the sharp Parisian turns. The other hand is a heat source, instantly pushing the crumpled silk of my dress up my thigh. His fingers are restless, searching, gripping the bare skin just beneath my hip, pressing me into the hard, thick ridge of his pants. Every time the cab jerks, the sudden friction sparks a low, involuntary moan from my throat, which he immediately swallows with another hungry kiss. The air around us is thick, humid, and quivering with the desperate need to get home.

When the cab finally brakes outside our apartment building, we practically fall out onto the sidewalk.

We stumble into the lobby, the air inside immediately quieter, hotter. The only sound is the shallow rasp of our own breathing. We start climbing the narrow, iron spiral staircase, but we only make it three steps before Conrad spins me around with an audible thump, pinning me against the rough plaster wall for another deep, consuming kiss. His mouth devours mine, wild and heavy, and I taste the metallic edge of need again.

We stop again on the next landing, breathing each other in. My fingers are locked in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and I feel the powerful thrumming of his pulse under my thumb. He's leaning into me, chest heaving, his weight solid and demanding. He pulls his head back just enough to trail his open mouth down my throat, his stubble scraping lightly against my neck, sending a fresh wave of fire through my skin. We don't speak; we communicate only in gasps and the frenzied searching of our hands before we manage to pull ourselves up the next flight.

Just before we reach our floor, Conrad pulls me to a complete, final halt by the railing. The soft yellow light from the landing above catches his profile. This is a different kind of kiss–slow, deep, and utterly possessive–a promise finally being kept. He leans me back against the cool iron banister. His left arm stretches up, taking my right hand and entwining our fingers tightly together. He presses our laced hands firmly against the cold, unforgiving metal of the banister, holding my arm suspended above my head and pinning me gently in place. His grip is tight; a soft, deliberate crush of my fingers against the iron.

With a lazy smile, I take his free hand, which had been clutching my waist, and guide it to the bare skin of my leg–a silent invitation. His breath hitches above me. My grip tightens, guiding his hand further, up the soft curve of my inner thigh–a desperate plea. He lets his fingers splay open, completely motionless as a beautifully arrogant smirk forms on his lips. I let out a sound of low, frustrated impatience before I finally shove his hand into my underwear–a clear, final demand.

Conrad

The instant my fingers slip beneath her folds, my brain short circuits. A thick, guttural groan rips from my chest and into her mouth; a sound I can’t control.

“You are so fucking wet for me, baby.” I growl against her, swallowing her whimpers with an unforgiving kiss.

I shift my position slightly, leaning into her, pressing my hips against hers through the thin fabric of her dress. With my thumb, I stroke her hard, deliberately, focusing all the tension of the entire evening into this one point. As my thumb finds her centre, I slide two fingers deep inside her. The slick, warm friction is maddening. I feel her muscles clench around my fingers, her breath dissolving into sharp, ragged gasps against my neck. She throws her head back against the railing, offering me the clean, elegant line of her throat. I dive in instantly, licking a searing line from her jaw down to her collarbone, then latching on, sucking hard just where her pulse beats fastest. Her hips buck instinctively against my hand, chasing the pressure. I don't let up. I keep the rhythm steady, demanding, watching the sheer pleasure contort her face in the low light.

"Conrad," she chokes out, the sound half-prayer, half-command.

The intensity snaps. Her whole body goes rigid, a tremor running through her from her hips to her shoulders. She cries out; a low, muffled sound, and grips the banister so hard her knuckles turn white. She’s collapsing into me, already dissolving in my arms. I keep stroking her as her body softens against the railing, feeling the heavy, satisfying rush of her orgasm against my hand.

I pull my fingers free, wet and shining in the dim light. I bring them to my mouth, licking the proof of her climax clean, my eyes never leaving hers. Her eyes darken, her pupils blown wide; a look of shocked, feral pleasure. She doesn't hesitate; she grabs my hand, yanking me up the rest of the steps, our urgency renewed and overwhelming.

We eventually stumble onto the floor of our apartment. She’s still slightly dazed, her lips swollen and eyes dark. She fumbles with the key, shaking slightly as she tries to coax the lock open. I’m right behind her, kissing every inch of exposed skin I can reach–her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the soft spot just behind her ear.

"Hurry," I mutter against her skin, my patience completely gone. The key is halfway in, and I can't wait another second.

I spin her around, slamming her back against the door–the key still jutting uselessly from the lock–and drive my mouth back down onto hers. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. That’s all the invitation I need. I scoop her up by the thighs, hoisting her up so that her legs wrap tightly around my waist, her feet dangling inches off the floor. I crush her mouth under mine, stealing her breath.

Somehow–I don't know if it's her hand or the sheer force of my hip shifting–the key finally turns. I slam the door open with my shoulder, stepping across the threshold with her legs clamped tight around my waist, my mouth fixed relentlessly to hers. She kicks her feet, and her heels go flying, skittering across the floor of the entrance hall with a loud, reckless clatter. I kick the door closed behind us with the heel of my shoe.

I take two steps and press her up against the cool, solid plaster of the entrance hall wall. Her dress is hiked high, exposing everything. I can’t carry her with one hand and open a condom with the other–that’s not an option. But there's no fucking way I'm putting her down.

I hold her impossibly tight with one arm wrapped securely under her thighs, my other hand reaching blindly into my pocket. I retrieve the foil packet and shove it into her hand. "Now," I manage to growl against her mouth.

She understands instantly. Her hands fly to the task, ripping the packet open. I feel her fingers quickly working the buckle of my belt, and then my pants are undone with two sharp zips and they fall to the floor with a soft thump. Her fingers are slick as she guides the smooth, thin latex onto me.

Before I can move, she shifts slightly, reaching down. I feel the thin elastic of her underwear yanked aside in one quick, decisive motion, clearing the way.

It's crude, it's fast, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. I lift her higher, securing my grip, and drive into her.

The entry is a sudden, blinding shock of electric heat and incredible pressure. She opens for me completely, slick and hot, taking the full force of my body with absolute ease, offering zero resistance. She is so fucking tight; forming a perfect, complete seal around me that makes the muscles in my back instantly lock. It’s agonising and instantly addictive.

"Fuck," I breathe, the single word a testament to the feeling of finally being home.

I drive into her again, hard, the motion a frantic echo of the night's building tension. The rough plaster scrapes slightly against her bare skin, but she doesn’t care; I feel the sharp drag of the coarse silk of her dress against my own skin with every stroke. Her hips match my frantic rhythm perfectly, rocking against the wall, trying to bury me deeper.

I can feel the entire length of me sinking into her. I have to tilt my head back, the cool air from a nearby open window a shock against my overheated neck, trying to breathe, trying to process the sheer intensity of this. This primal, all-consuming need.

"Look at me, Belly," I demand, my voice raw and unfamiliar, thickened with desire. When her eyes flutter open, they are dark and unfocused, completely taken over with lust.

"You're mine. Right here. Mine," I rasp against her ear, driving into her with a violence I can't check, needing to be as deep as possible. My knuckles are white where they grip her thighs, claiming her, marking this moment as absolutely ours.

She doesn't speak. She just makes these small, desperate sounds–a whimpering catch of air, a low, vibrating moan that she tries to smother against my shoulder. Her nails dig into my back, raking downward across the skin, leaving a hot, stinging trail.

“Say it, Belly. Tell me who you fucking belong to.” I drive into her once for each word that I say, punctuating my demand with thrusts that are deep and demanding. I let out a ragged, tortured breath as I wait for her answer.

“Yours. I’m yours, Conrad.” Her voice breaks on the words, and she locks her arms fiercely around my neck, burying her face into my collarbone as she says it.

Every snap of our hips is a collision, shattering the lingering formality of the night, reducing us to nothing but pure, animalistic instinct. I feel my control fraying, her body vibrating around me. I know I’m close; terrifyingly close. She’s here. I’m here. This is all that exists.

The climax hits us almost simultaneously; a shuddering, roaring wave that slams our bodies against the cold, unyielding wall. When the tremors finally subside, I sag against her, burying my face in the curve of her neck, my breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The scent of her–musk, sweat, and cheap French wine–is intoxicating. I don't let her go. I simply hold her there, pinned to the wall, suspended in the aftermath, the glorious silence of our Parisian night finally settling around us.

Belly

Minutes later, the glorious silence has followed us into the bedroom. We’re tangled in the sheets, the lights from the bedside lamp casting a soft, golden glow. The windows are thrown wide open, and the cool, damp air of the late-night street drifts in; a sharp, clean contrast to the heat of our bodies. I’m wrapped loosely in my satin robe, and Conrad is in his boxers.

He’s propped up on his elbow, watching me. The intense, feral energy is gone, replaced by the familiar, contemplative furrow in his brow. He reaches out and gently traces the line of my jaw with the pad of his thumb.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice raspy, “Look at me.” He utters the same words as before, but this time they are a quiet request instead of a harsh command.

I turn my head toward him.

“That was…a lot,” he admits, his eyes searching mine. “I know I was a little rough, Belly. I need you to tell me–was that okay? Did I take too much?”

His concern is genuine, and it cuts through the last of the adrenaline. I feel the truth rise up as a fierce, unapologetic warmth pouring out of my chest.

“It was more than okay,” I confirm, tilting my head into his touch. “It was exactly what I needed. What we both needed. I loved that you didn’t hold back. I loved that it was wild.”

"Good," he whispers, moving his hand to settle over my cheek. "I needed to know that. It was just pure instinct. I couldn't stop myself."

I lean forward and kiss the soft corner of his mouth. "You don't ever have to stop yourself with me."

He nods slowly, his relief palpable, but his brow furrows again, signaling a deeper worry. He lowers his voice even further. “What about…earlier? In the cab.” He shifts slightly, pulling the sheet higher over my shoulder. “I should have controlled myself better. Did you…did you feel too exposed?”

I meet his gaze, surprised by the seriousness of his concern over something I’d already processed. “Exposed?” I consider the rattling windows, the dark Parisian streets and the cab driver in the front seat, “I think I was too focused on you to care.” I pause, a small, genuine grin touching my lips. “Besides, it was a little exciting, wasn’t it? Knowing we were the only thing happening in the whole city right then.”

He stares at me for a long moment, the tension finally leaving his face, replaced by that soft, proud smile I love. “Yeah,” he whispers, leaning in to bump his forehead gently against mine. “It was exactly that.”

He pulls me close, resting my head against his shoulder. His touch is light and steady now, a perfect counterbalance to the chaotic thrill of minutes ago. He begins to stroke my hair, slow and rhythmic. I feel the last of my muscles release, sinking fully into the mattress and the secure knowledge that the intensity of our connection hasn’t broken the intimacy, but strengthened it.