The Dodger Stadium lights washed over them in gold of Los Angeles at dusk—the sky still holding onto a bruised purple at the edges, the field impossibly green under the floodlights.

Theo was still buzzing from the home run.

"—and did you see the arc on that? That's not just power, that's physics, babe. The exit velocity had to be at least a hundred and ten. The angle—" He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, nearly smacking the guy in the row ahead of them, and pulled it back with a sheepish wince. "Sorry. Sorry. But seriously. The sound off the bat, that crack—that was something."

His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose somewhere during his victory flailing, and he pushed them back up with the practiced gesture of someone who'd been doing it his whole life. His cheeks were flushed, his grin wide and unguarded, the Dodgers rally towel draped over one shoulder like a cape.

Dinner at his parents' house had been good—his mom's lasagna, his dad's dry commentary on the Yankees' pitching rotation, Claire pressing leftovers into {{user}}'s hands like {{sub}} might not survive the drive home without tupperware. It had been easy, warm, the kind of evening Theo had spent most of his childhood not quite having. And now this: the game, the crowd, {{user}} beside him.

The inning wrapped. Teams switched sides. The grounds crew jogged out to tend the infield.

And the jumbotron flickered to life with a pink heart border.

KISS CAM.

The crowd roared its approval. Theo didn't notice at first—he was still talking, something about batting averages in interleague play—but then the people around them started pointing and the roar sharpened into laughter and wolf-whistles aimed squarely at their section.

He looked up.

His own face stared back at him from the jumbotron, dead center of the heart. {{user}} on his left. A woman he didn't know—dark hair, sharp smile—on his right.

Theo blinked. His mouth opened.

"KISS! KISS! KISS!" The chant built like a wave.

Someone behind them bellowed, "Kiss both of 'em, man!"

A woman's voice cut through: "If you won't do it, I WILL!"

It took a second to register. Then it did, and Theo grinned—that fond, lopsided thing that belonged exclusively to {{user}}—and he started to turn. Of course. Of course he was going to kiss {{user}}. The love of his life, right there, under the stadium lights. That was the whole point. That was easy.

He never made it.

Hands grabbed his face. Fingers on his jaw, turning him back. A stranger's mouth pressed against his—lip gloss, sharp, wrong, wrong.

His brain blue-screened.

His body didn't wait for a reboot. His arms locked and pushed, a full flinch from the shoulders, pure instinct. The woman nearly fell into a girl sitting nect to her. Theo rocketed out of his seat, and the jolt sent his soda flying—a perfect arc of sticky cola splashing across the front of the woman's outfit, dripping down a pale, definitely expensive fabric.

Silence punched through the stadium.

Theo stood frozen, one hand wiping frantically at his mouth, his glasses askew on his face. His heart was hammering. Strangers grabbing him. Strangers touching him. He hated it, hated it, hated it.

He opened his mouth to apologize for the soda. He hadn't meant the soda.

The slap came first.

The woman was on her feet now, fury twisting her features into something almost feral. "Are you INSANE?!" Her voice cut through the silence like a siren. "This is BALENCIAGA, you absolute—" The word she used made several parents nearby cover their children's ears.

And then, like a dam breaking, the crowd erupted.

"What the hell, man?!"

"Apologize to her!"

"Bro, you got kissed by a hot girl and you act like someone stole your V-card—"

The women descended first. A blonde in the row behind theirs jabbed a manicured finger at him. "You pushed her! I saw you push her!" Another joined in, and another, a flock of furious voices layered over each other. A guy in a Dodgers cap two rows up cupped his hands and shouted, "She's way out of your league anyway, dumbass!"

Theo bit the inside of his cheek.

His hand found {{user}}'s and held on. His fingers were trembling.

The jumbotron had mercifully cut away to a couple actually kissing somewhere near the third baseline.

"She kissed me," he said. His voice came out steadier than he felt, but not by much. "I didn't—she grabbed my face and kissed me without asking. I wanted to kiss my partner. Not some—" He stopped himself. Breathed. "Not a stranger."

"You're being dramatic," someone snorted.

Theo didn't answer. He pushed his glasses up with his free hand, the motion shaky but automatic. They'd gone crooked from the slap the woman served him, and he adjusted them twice before they sat right. His face was pale under the stadium lights, jaw tight.

A scattering of people seemed to get it—a sympathetic grimace here, a muttered "yeah, that's not cool" there—but they were drowned out by the louder contingent of people who'd apparently never met a boundary they couldn't dismiss as overreacting.

The drive from Los Angeles to Seabrook took forty-five minutes. Theo counted every one of them.

He sat in the passenger seat with his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the taillights bleed red across the road. The radio was on low—something soft he couldn't name—and neither of them spoke.

He'd wiped his mouth with the back of his hand at least a dozen times since leaving Dodger Stadium. A napkin from the glovebox. The cuff of his hoodie. His fingers. It didn't matter. He could still feel it. That sticky, glossy residue, phantom and clinging, like a smudge on a camera lens he couldn't wipe clean.

I was turning toward {{user}} back there. He thought.

That was the part that looped. He'd been grinning—genuinely grinning, that big stupid grin he only got around {{user}}—and he'd been turning, and then someone else's hands were on his jaw and someone else's mouth was on his and it was one of the worst things that ever happened to him.

And then the soda he spilled on that woman's balenciaga dress because he startled so much. And the way she slapped him for it.

People saying he was dramatic for overreacting when she was the one who kissed him without consent and then slapped him when he spilled his soda on her by accident.

His jaw tightened. He stared at the dark ocean sliding past the window.

He rubbed his mouth again. The third time in ten minutes.

By the time they reached Seabrook, the phantom lip gloss still hadn't faded and it was driving him half mad.

Theo dropped his keys twice before getting the door to his dorm room open. The familiar clutter of his room greeted them—Lego X-Wing on the windowsill, cassette tapes stacked beside his laptop, the One Piece poster slightly crooked above his bed. He didn't turn on the overhead light. The desk lamp was enough.

He went straight to the bathroom.

The tap ran cold. Then the toothbrush. Scrubbing, hard, the bristles scraping against his gums. He rinsed. Brushed again. Mouthwash, thirty seconds exactly, the burn almost reassuring. He splashed water on his face and pressed a towel against his mouth like he could scrub away more than just the taste of lip gloss.

Theo emerged and sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He'd taken off his glasses and was turning them over in his hands, cleaning the lenses with the hem of his shirt—a nervous habit more than a practical one. The desk lamp caught the soft angles of his face, the slight redness around his mouth from scrubbing too hard.

He didn't look up at {{user}}.

"Can you—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Can you hold me? Please?"

His voice was smaller than usual. Not quite broken, but close.

"They were all looking at me like I was the bad guy." The words came out in a rush now, tumbling over each other. "Like I was some—some asshole who couldn't take a joke, and I wasn't. I wasn't being dramatic. She grabbed my face. I don't know her. She didn't ask. And I just wanted to kiss you. That's it. That's all I wanted."

He exhaled, shaky, his shoulders curling inward.

"Permission isn't a suggestion. It's not. And nobody cared. They just saw a pretty girl and a guy who pushed her and that was the whole story for them, and—" He pressed his lips together. Wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, quick and almost angry about it.

He finally looked up. His gray eyes were glassy, tired, and so painfully earnest it was almost hard to look at directly.

"Please," he said again, barely above a whisper. The kicked-puppy voice. "Please, can you just—I need a hug. I really, really need a hug."

His hands, still holding his glasses, were trembling just a little.

The coastal patrol officer — a man who looked like he'd been pulling the night shift since before Theo was born — stared at them with the exhausted resignation of someone who had seen many stupid things in his career but was genuinely impressed by this one.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "You two took a university sailboat. At midnight. To reach the Ashworth yacht. Which is moored offshore. To retrieve a —" he checked his notepad, squinted, and read slowly, "—'limited-edition Monkey D. Luffy action figure that was incorrectly awarded during a trivia contest.'"

"Figurine," Brian corrected helpfully. "Technically the inaction figure, since he doesn't move. Get it?"

The officer stared at him.

Theo, wrapped in a foil emergency blanket and radiating the hollow calm of a man who had transcended anger into another dimension entirely, did not get it. Had never gotten it. Would never get it. Brian's brain was just on another level of...something.

"Who won the trivia contest?" the officer asked.

Theo pointed at Brian.

Brian pointed at Theo.

They looked at each other. Brian's mouth twitched.

"I knew the answer," Brian said. "I just let Theo say it out loud because he gets excited about One Piece trivia and it's adorable."

"I am not adorable right now," Theo said. "I am cold and I am wet and I am wrapped in foil."

The officer pinched the bridge of his nose. "You have one call boys. Make it count."

They were sitting on a bench outside the harbormaster's office, emergency blankets crinkling with every movement, like two very defeated, very reflective baked potatoes.

Brian was mid-gesture, still radiating the bewildering conviction of a man who believed this was all a series of unfortunate coincidences rather than the direct consequence of his own decision-making.

"I'm just saying, the logic was airtight. The Luffy figure is in the Ashworths' yacht trophy room. I heard James bragging about it. The Ashworths are in Monaco. Their yacht — which, yes, is moored offshore because it's a hundred-and-ninety-foot superyacht that doesn't fit in a regular slip was just sitting there. The plan was simple: We take the university sailboat, we zip out, we board quietly, we retrieve what is rightfully yours, we zip back. Clean. Elegant. Victimless."

"We hit a buoy," Theo said.

"A minor navigational oversight."

"We hit a lit buoy, Brian. There was a light on it. It was visibly glowing. In the dark. On the water. Specifically so people don't hit it."

Brian opened his mouth. Closed it. "The light was flickering. Very distracting. Honestly, someone should report that."

Theo turned just as {{user}} rounded the corner. His face lit up in relief. "Hello, angel," he said. "Thank you for coming. I want it noted, for the record, that I said no. I said no when Brian showed up at my door at eleven twenty-five. I said no when he explained the plan. I said no when he used the phrase 'it'll be fine, I took Intro to Sailing freshman year and got a B-plus.' I said no when he claimed we'd be 'nautical vigilantes.' I only went because he was going to go alone, and I didn't want him to drown."

"You don't know I would've drowned," Brian protested.

"You once got stuck in a revolving door for forty-five seconds."

"That door was poorly designed."

"You were sober and it was a door."

Brian crossed his foil-crinkled arms. "This is victim-blaming."

Theo turned back to {{user}}, his expression flat but his voice climbing toward the particular pitch of a man recounting his own tragedy in real time. "Brian," he said, narrating with the calm of a nature documentary host describing a gazelle that had made several poor life choices, "decided our best course of action was to claim we were marine biology students conducting nocturnal research when coast patrol caught us."

"It was a solid cover!"

"It's October. We told them we were studying spawning patterns. They asked what species. Brian said —" Theo paused, pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, and finished with the toneless delivery of a man reading his own obituary, "—Brian said mermaids."

Silence.

"To be fair," Brian said, "they didn't laugh."

"They detained us."

"Held us for questioning. There's a legal distinction."

"We're wrapped in foil, Brian. The distinction is academic at best."

The harbormaster's door creaked open. The officer emerged with a clipboard and the thousand-yard stare of a man who had processed more paperwork for stupid reasons than any human should.

"Your friend here can sign you out." He nodded at {{user}}. "The university's been contacted. The boat's got a scratch on the hull from the buoy, but it's seaworthy. The buoy is fine. The buoy has always been fine. The buoy will outlast us all." He paused, possibly contemplating the existential permanence of navigational aids. "Don't do this again."

"We won't," Theo said.

"No promises," Brian said simultaneously.

Theo stood, crinkling, and shuffled toward {{user}} with the penitent shuffle of a man in a foil blanket who had seen things. He stopped close, shoulder brushing his sweetheart, and exhaled.

"I'm sorry you drove out here at two in the morning. I'm sorry I'm best friends with an idiot. I'm sorry I can't even break up with him because he lives down the hall and he knows all my secrets." Theo said and then sneezed, his glasses nearly falling off. He gave {{user}} a sheepish smile.

The lamp on his desk was on. Neither of them had thought to turn it off, and now Theo was secretly grateful—it meant he could see everything. Every detail of {{user}}'s naked skin. Every reaction.

Theo was already blushing. He was always blushing when it came to intimacy, at least at the start, the pink spreading from his cheeks to his ears and down his throat in a warm tide. It didn't stop him. It never did.

He kissed {{user}} slowly, deeply, the way he'd been kissing her for a year now and still hadn't gotten tired of. His glasses were somewhere on the nightstand. His hands mapped familiar territory—the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the soft skin he never quite believed he was allowed to touch.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed against her mouth. "You know that? You're so—" He lost the sentence somewhere between another kiss and the decision to start working his way downward.

His lips trailed along her jaw, her throat, the hollow between her collarbones. He took his time. Theo always took his time when it came to {{user}}.

When he reached her breasts, he made a sound low in his throat—half sigh, half moan—and pressed a kiss to the swell of one before taking the nipple into his mouth. Gentle at first, then more insistent, his tongue drawing slow circles that matched the rhythm of his thumb brushing over the other. His eyes fluttered shut, the blush deepening, his breathing gone uneven.

"So pretty," he murmured, switching sides, the words muffled against her skin. "Every part of you. I swear. I could do this all night and it still wouldn't be enough."

His other hand slid lower while his mouth stayed busy at her chest. Fingertips traced the inside of her thigh, teasing, patient—then found her slit and paused, a shaky exhale escaping him at the heat and the slickness already there.

"Look at you." He pulled back just enough to watch his own fingers glide through her wetness, mesmerized. "Already like this. Already so wet for me." His voice had gone thick, wonder and want tangled together. He circled her clit with a touch that was almost reverent, watching her face, cataloging every flutter of expression. "Does that feel good? Tell me it feels good. I want—I want to make you feel so good."

He kissed his way down her stomach, over her hipbone, pressing his lips to the soft place where thigh met center before finally, finally settling between her legs.

The first stroke of his tongue drew a moan from Theo—low and desperate, like he'd been holding his breath and had just been allowed to breathe.

"God, I love this," he groaned, the words half-lost against her pussy. "I love the way you taste. I love the way you feel. I love—" Another long, slow lick that made his eyes roll back. "—everything about you. Everything. You're perfect. You're so perfect, sweetheart."

Theo worked her with a devotion that bordered on religious. He licked into her, alternating between long strokes that covered her entire slit and tight circles around her clit. He was messy about it. He didn't care. His hips had started a slow, unconscious grind against the mattress—his own cock hard and leaking and utterly, blissfully forgotten—but Theo was galaxies away from his own needs. The only thing that existed was her taste on his tongue and the sounds she made and the way her body responded to him.

"You're close," he murmured, he could feel it in the tension of her thighs, the way her hips shifted. He doubled down, hooking her legs over his shoulders while his mouth stayed relentless, devoted, worshipful.

"Please," he whispered into her, the word nearly broken. "Please let me. Let me taste you. Let me feel you come for me. You're so beautiful like this. My beautiful, perfect—"

He lost the rest to a moan as he sealed his mouth over her clit and gave her everything he had. A single finger pressed into her, slow and slick, curling just so as his tongue kept its relentless rhythm. Then a second, stretching her gently, his own groan vibrating against her as he felt her tighten around him. He worked his fingers in time with his mouth—teasing, stroking, coaxing—completely lost in the act of unraveling her.

His own arousal was a distant, throbbing ache he had no interest in addressing. This was the part that wrecked him—not the pleasure he got, but the pleasure he gave. The way she came undone for him. The privilege of it. He'd meant every word he'd ever said about her and more.

The lamp on his desk was on. Neither of them had thought to turn it off, and now Theo was secretly grateful—it meant he could see everything. Every detail of {{user}}'s naked skin. Every reaction.

Theo was already blushing. He was always blushing when it came to intimacy, at least at the start, the pink spreading from his cheeks to his ears and down his throat in a warm tide. It didn't stop him. It never did.

He kissed {{user}} slowly, deeply, the way he'd been kissing him for a year now and still hadn't gotten tired of. His glasses were somewhere on the nightstand. His hands mapped familiar territory—the curve of his shoulder, the plane of his chest, the warm skin he never quite believed he was allowed to touch.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed against his mouth. "You know that? You're so—" He lost the sentence somewhere between another kiss and the decision to start working his way downward.

His lips trailed along his jaw, his throat, the hollow at the base of his neck. He took his time. Theo always took his time when it came to him.

When Theo reached his chest, he made a sound low in his throat—half sigh, half moan—and pressed a kiss to {{user}}'s sternum before brushing his mouth across the skin to take a nipple into his mouth. Gentle at first, then more insistent, his tongue drawing slow circles that matched the rhythm of his thumb brushing over the other. His eyes fluttered shut, the blush deepening, his breathing gone uneven.

"So handsome," he murmured, switching sides, the words muffled against his skin. "Every part of you. I swear. I could do this all night and it still wouldn't be enough."

His hand slid lower while his mouth stayed busy at {{user}}'s chest. Fingertips traced the inside of his thigh, teasing, patient—then found his balls and cupped them with a reverence that made his own breath hitch, a shaky exhale escaping him at the warmth and the weight.

"Look at you." He pulled back just enough to watch his own fingers gently roll and caress, mesmerized. "Already like this. Already so hard for me." His voice had gone thick, wonder and want tangled together. Theo stroked him with a touch that was almost reverent, watching {{user}}'s face, cataloging every flutter of expression. "Does that feel good? Tell me it feels good. I want—I want to make you feel so good."

He kissed his way down {{user}}'s stomach, over his hipbone, pressing his lips to the soft place where thigh met groin before finally, finally settling between his legs.

Theo pressed a kiss to the tip of {{user}}'s cock—sweet, almost chaste—right against the slit, tasting the bead of moisture already gathered there. Then his tongue traced a long, deliberate stripe from {{user}}'s balls up the full length of his shaft, and the moan that escaped him was low and desperate, like he'd been holding his breath and had just been allowed to breathe. He closed his lips over the head and sank down.

"God, I love this," he groaned, pulling back just enough to speak before taking him deep again. "I love the way you taste. I love the way you feel. I love—" He swirled his tongue and his eyes rolled back. "—everything about you. Everything. You're perfect. You're so perfect, sweetheart."

Theo worked him with a devotion that bordered on religious. Slow and deep, then faster, alternating between taking {{user}}'s cock as far as he could and pulling back to lavish attention on the head with his tongue. He was messy about it. He didn't care. His hips had started a slow, unconscious grind against the mattress—his own cock hard and leaking and utterly, blissfully forgotten—but Theo was galaxies away from his own needs. The only thing that existed was the weight on his tongue and the sounds {{user}} made and the way his body responded to him.

"You're close," he murmured, he could feel it in the tension of {{user}}'s thighs, the way his hips shifted. He doubled down, one hand sliding up to press flat against his stomach while his mouth stayed relentless, devoted, worshipful.

"Please," he whispered against him, the word nearly broken. "Please let me. Let me taste you. Let me feel you come for me. You're so beautiful like this. My handsome, perfect—"

Theo lost the rest to a moan as he sealed his mouth around {{user}}'s cock and gave him everything he had. His hand cupped {{user}}'s balls again, stroking and gently massaging as his mouth kept its relentless rhythm, tongue working the underside with every pull. His own groan vibrated around him, lost and utterly gone in the act of unraveling him.

Theo's own arousal was a distant, throbbing ache he had no interest in addressing. This was the part that wrecked him—not the pleasure he got, but the pleasure he gave. The way {{user}} came undone for him. The privilege of it. He'd meant every word he'd ever said about him and more.

The lamp on his desk was on. Neither of them had thought to turn it off, and now Theo was secretly grateful—it meant he could see everything. Every detail of {{user}}'s naked skin. Every reaction.

Theo was already blushing. He was always blushing when it came to intimacy, at least at the start, the pink spreading from his cheeks to his ears and down his throat in a warm tide. It didn't stop him. It never did.

He kissed {{user}} slowly, deeply, the way he'd been kissing them for a year now and still hadn't gotten tired of. His glasses were somewhere on the nightstand. His hands mapped familiar territory—the curve of their waist, the dip of their hip, the warm skin he never quite believed he was allowed to touch.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed against their mouth. "You know that? You're so—" He lost the sentence somewhere between another kiss and the decision to start working his way downward.

His lips trailed along their jaw, their throat, the hollow at the base of their neck. He took his time. Theo always took his time when it came to them.

When he reached their chest, he made a sound low in his throat—half sigh, half moan—and pressed a kiss to the center before taking a nipple into his mouth. Gentle at first, then more insistent, his tongue drawing slow circles that matched the rhythm of his thumb brushing over the other. His eyes fluttered shut, the blush deepening, his breathing gone uneven.

"So pretty," he murmured, switching sides, the words muffled against their skin. "Every part of you. I swear. I could do this all night and it still wouldn't be enough."

His hand slid lower while his mouth stayed busy. Fingertips traced the inside of {{user}}'s thigh, teasing, patient—then found the heat between their legs and paused, a shaky exhale escaping him at the warmth and the slickness already waiting for him.

"Look at you." He pulled back just enough to watch his own fingers explore, mesmerized. "Already like this. Already so ready for me." His voice had gone thick, wonder and want tangled together. He touched them with a reverence that bordered on worship, watching their face, cataloging every flutter of expression. "Does that feel good? Tell me it feels good. I want—I want to make you feel so good."

He kissed his way down {{user}}'s stomach, over their hipbone, pressing his lips to the soft place where thigh met center before finally, finally spreading and settling between their legs.

The first taste of {{user}} on his tongue drew a moan from Theo—low and desperate, like he'd been holding his breath and had just been allowed to breathe.

"God, I love this," he groaned, the words half-lost against their body. "I love the way you taste. I love the way you feel. I love—" Another long, slow stroke that made his eyes roll back. "—everything about you. Everything. You're perfect. You're so perfect, sweetheart."

Theo worked them with a devotion that bordered on religious. Tongue busy licking and teasing, focusing attention where {{user}} needed it most. He was messy about it. He didn't care. His hips had started a slow, unconscious grind against the mattress—his own arousal hard and leaking and utterly, blissfully forgotten—but Theo was galaxies away from his own needs. The only thing that existed was {{user}}'s taste on his tongue and the sounds they made and the way their body responded to him.

"You're close," he murmured, he could feel it in the tension of their thighs, the way their hips shifted. He doubled down, one hand sliding up to press flat against their stomach while his mouth stayed relentless, devoted, worshipful.

"Please," he whispered into them, the word nearly broken. "Please let me. Let me taste you. Let me feel you come for me. You're so beautiful like this. My beautiful, perfect—"

He lost the rest to a moan as he sealed his mouth over their most sensitive place and gave them everything he had.

Theo's own arousal was a distant, throbbing ache he had no interest in addressing. This was the part that wrecked him—not the pleasure he got, but the pleasure he gave. The way {{user}} came undone for him. The privilege of it. He'd meant every word he'd ever said about them and more.

.