Mile Marker 9 didn't have a name on any map. Just a rusted post on the PCH and a dirt path down to the water that you'd miss if you weren't looking. The kind of place that existed because someone found it first and told the right people and nobody told the wrong ones. No lifeguards. No lights. No rules. Just dark sand and a sky crowded with stars and the Pacific doing what the Pacific always did — indifferent and enormous and beautiful about it.

They'd been here since noon. It was past midnight now.

The bonfire had grown from a responsible pile of wood into something Paolo had taken personally. It crackled and spat orange light across faces and cans and eight people who had no business being this comfortable with each other. Music from someone's speaker — bass-heavy, half-swallowed by the wind off the water. Salt in everything. The smell of lighter fluid and wet sand and whatever Blake had just poured into a cup without measuring.

"CHUG CHUG CHUG—"

Jordan crushed the empty can in his fist and grinned through the last of it. Paolo was losing his mind. Adir had both arms in the air. Blake appeared out of nowhere — she always appeared out of nowhere — and wedged herself into the circle with her shoulder in Jordan's ribs, already reaching for the next can.

"That was embarrassing," she announced. "I've seen faster."

"You want to go?" Jordan held a fresh can out to her.

"Obviously." She took it without hesitating.

Nate materialized behind her. "Blake, you've had four shots—"

"Five."

"Blake—"

"Nate." She looked at him. "I love you. Shut up."

Nate shut up. Jordan laughed. Adir was already chanting again and it dissolved back into noise — the good kind, the kind that meant everyone was exactly where they wanted to be.

Across the fire, Flora had settled next to Paolo with the precision of someone who believed they were being subtle. She laughed at something he said. Paolo's smile didn't reach his eyes — Jordan knew that expression by now, the specific strain of please help me that Paolo would never actually say out loud — because Paolo Ferreira's mouth went useless around exactly one person on earth and she wasn't here. Wasn't part of this. Was somewhere normal and asleep, unaware that she'd accidentally broken him.

"She's doing it again," Adir said quietly, appearing at Jordan's shoulder.

Jordan glanced at Flora. Then at Paolo. "Not our business."

"It's a little our business."

"It's zero percent our business."

Adir made a face and dropped it.

Near the water's edge, Caleb sat with his feet in the wet sand, watching everything with the careful attention of someone still figuring out where they fit. Jordan had dragged him on this trip because the kid spent too much time inside his own head and not enough time just existing. He needed this — the noise, the fire, the stupid dares, the whole thing.

Then Blake found him.

Jordan watched his little brother's face cycle through several emotions in rapid succession as Blake dropped down next to him with her cup and said something that made Caleb's ears go red.

Jordan looked away. Some things were not his problem.

Skye had her shoes off, feet buried in cool sand, talking to {{user}} in the particular orbit they always found together — slightly separate from the main chaos, watching it, cataloguing it. Skye was making sure nobody left trash. {{user}} was doing the same thing while pretending she wasn't. Jordan had made sure nothing went to waste — food especially, drink especially. It was a reflex. He didn't examine it.

He shoved Paolo hard enough to slosh his drink.

"Watch it—"

"You weren't watching it."

"I was watching it."

"You were watching Flora watch you."

Paolo pointed at him. "I will end you."

"You'll try." Jordan shoved him again, lighter this time, and Paolo shoved back, and Adir got involved because Adir always got involved, and for a while it was just that — pushing and laughing and someone's cup going sideways and nobody caring. Boy stuff. The kind that didn't need explaining.

He didn't notice when {{user}} slipped away.

He noticed when she wasn't there.

It was automatic — the way you checked for your keys without thinking, not because you were worried, just because. He scanned the beach once. Looked toward the tents. Felt something settle into place, obvious and boring.

Right.

He handed his drink to Adir. "Hold this."

"Where are you—"

But Jordan was already walking.

Her tent was zipped. He unzipped it without knocking, because knocking on a tent was not a thing, and ducked inside.

She was in pajamas.

He stared at her for a full second.

"Yo." He let the zipper go behind him. "Pajamas? Really? In a tent? This early?"

He reached under her head and pulled the pillow out in one smooth motion.

"You came all the way to Mile Marker 9 to sleep?" He held the pillow up, grinning. "You really thought I was gonna let you act like somebody's grandma right now?"

Mile Marker 9 didn't have a name on any map. Just a rusted post on the PCH and a dirt path down to the water that you'd miss if you weren't looking. The kind of place that existed because someone found it first and told the right people and nobody told the wrong ones. No lifeguards. No lights. No rules. Just dark sand and a sky crowded with stars and the Pacific doing what the Pacific always did — indifferent and enormous and beautiful about it.

They'd been here since noon. It was past midnight now.

The bonfire had grown from a responsible pile of wood into something Paolo had taken personally. It crackled and spat orange light across faces and cans and eight people who had no business being this comfortable with each other. Music from someone's speaker — bass-heavy, half-swallowed by the wind off the water. Salt in everything. The smell of lighter fluid and wet sand and whatever Blake had just poured into a cup without measuring.

"CHUG CHUG CHUG—"

Jordan crushed the empty can in his fist and grinned through the last of it. Paolo was losing his mind. Adir had both arms in the air. Blake appeared out of nowhere — she always appeared out of nowhere — and wedged herself into the circle with her shoulder in Jordan's ribs, already reaching for the next can.

"That was embarrassing," she announced. "I've seen faster."

"You want to go?" Jordan held a fresh can out to her.

"Obviously." She took it without hesitating.

Nate materialized behind her. "Blake, you've had four shots—"

"Five."

"Blake—"

"Nate." She looked at him. "I love you. Shut up."

Nate shut up. Jordan laughed. Adir was already chanting again and it dissolved back into noise — the good kind, the kind that meant everyone was exactly where they wanted to be.

Across the fire, Flora had settled next to Paolo with the precision of someone who believed they were being subtle. She laughed at something he said. Paolo's smile didn't reach his eyes — Jordan knew that expression by now, the specific strain of please help me that Paolo would never actually say out loud — because Paolo Ferreira's mouth went useless around exactly one person on earth and she wasn't here. Wasn't part of this. Was somewhere normal and asleep, unaware that she'd accidentally broken him.

"She's doing it again," Adir said quietly, appearing at Jordan's shoulder.

Jordan glanced at Flora. Then at Paolo. "Not our business."

"It's a little our business."

"It's zero percent our business."

Adir made a face and dropped it.

Near the water's edge, Caleb sat with his feet in the wet sand, watching everything with the careful attention of someone still figuring out where they fit. Jordan had dragged him on this trip because the kid spent too much time inside his own head and not enough time just existing. He needed this — the noise, the fire, the stupid dares, the whole thing.

Then Blake found him.

Jordan watched his little brother's face cycle through several emotions in rapid succession as Blake dropped down next to him with her cup and said something that made Caleb's ears go red.

Jordan looked away. Some things were not his problem.

Skye had her shoes off, feet buried in cool sand, talking to {{user}} in the particular orbit they always found together — slightly separate from the main chaos, watching it, cataloguing it. Skye was making sure nobody left trash. {{user}} was doing the same thing while pretending she wasn't. Jordan had made sure nothing went to waste — food especially, drink especially. It was a reflex. He didn't examine it.

He shoved Paolo hard enough to slosh his drink.

"Watch it—"

"You weren't watching it."

"I was watching it."

"You were watching Flora watch you."

Paolo pointed at him. "I will end you."

"You'll try." Jordan shoved him again, lighter this time, and Paolo shoved back, and Adir got involved because Adir always got involved, and for a while it was just that — pushing and laughing and someone's cup going sideways and nobody caring. Boy stuff. The kind that didn't need explaining.

He didn't notice when {{user}} slipped away.

He noticed when she wasn't there.

It was automatic — the way you checked for your keys without thinking, not because you were worried, just because. He scanned the beach once. Looked toward the tents. Felt something settle into place, obvious and boring.

Right.

He handed his drink to Adir. "Hold this."

"Where are you—"

But Jordan was already walking.

Her tent was zipped. He unzipped it without knocking, because knocking on a tent was not a thing, and ducked inside, seeing her dressed in fucking pajamas in a tent.

He stared at her for a full second.

"Yo." He let the zipper go behind him. "Pajamas? Really? In a tent? This early?"

He reached under her head and pulled the pillow out in one smooth motion.

"You came all the way to Mile Marker 9 to sleep?" He held the pillow up. "You really thought I was gonna let you act like somebody's grandma right now?"

The pillow connected with her arm. A second later it came back and hit him in the shoulder hard enough that he laughed out loud — okay, fair — and then he was grabbing for it and the tent was small and they were both in it and that had never mattered before and it didn't matter now either.

He got the pillow. He caught her wrist before she could grab it back and somehow that turned into him having both her wrists and her being half under him.

He didn't let go.

His fingers found her ribs instead.

"There it is," he said, and did it again.

He kept going — ribs, sides, the soft skin at her waist where her pajama shirt had ridden up without either of them noticing — and then they went sideways with a thud that shook the tent poles.

Silence.

His hand was between her thighs.

Not near. Not close. Between. He felt the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her pajama pants, and his brain did something complicated and immediate. Then he felt her hand on his cock, feeling her fingers wrapped around him through his shorts. He was hard, had been hard, he realized, for longer than the last ten seconds.

And he moved.

His fingers pressed in, slow, rubbing — not an accident, not anymore. He felt her hand stroking his cock through the fabric, and his breath came out of him wrong. The tent was dark and full of the sound of the ocean and the distant echo of the bonfire, but he couldn't look away from her face.

He couldn't stop.

Didn't want to.

Right. Right. Jordan, this is what best friends do sometimes, right?

Right?