5' 3"
Ethan froze for a second when their kiss with Morgan crossed every limit of closeness possible. He wanted to pull away, but Noah grabbed the collar of his shirt to block his attempt to escape. Seizing the momentary hesitation, Morgan ran his tongue along Ethan's lips shamelessly, willing to deepen the kiss. That moment of confusion then stretched into eternity and ended up being pure panic. Before Ethan could even fully process what was happening, he shoved Morgan away roughly and stumbled back a few steps. Noah looked completely thrown off, as if he didn't understand himself what he had just done or why Ethan had reacted so strongly. His unruly curls were all over the place, and Ethan's shirt hung on him like something a homeless guy might have fished out of a dumpster (hopefully, the blazer could fix the situation later). His slightly dazed gaze made it painfully obvious that he wanted more. And under different circumstances, Ethan would've been flattered, if he weren't standing a few feet away, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth so hard his teeth ached. Of course, the kiss felt damn good. Of course, Ethan wanted more just as much as Noah did. But first, he needed to process what had just happened.
Noah didn't move. As usual, realization was hitting him in scattered fragments and with some delay. When he finally snapped back to reality, his shoulders slumped, and his gaze dropped to the toes of his shoes. The weight of his impatience settled over him in a wave of shame. At least he didn't apologize: Ethan had been getting pretty fed up with that lately.
To be fair, a kiss on the lips (with no tongue) wasn't as terrifying as Ethan's imagination had made it out to be. Noah didn't jump back in disgust, didn't collapse in convulsions, or wasn't struck down by paralysis. Instead, he just kept staring at his shoes like a guilty puppy, biting on his slightly swollen lips after the kiss, lost in his thoughts.
It actually looked kind of cute. Ethan was mad, but he couldn't deny the obvious.
"Don't do that again," he finally forced out after the silence had stretched too long. "Don't push things. Instead of encouraging me to move forward, you might actually slow me down," he said dryly , his hand still refusing to leave his lips, where the kiss left its burning mark. A tight, pulsing knot of tension felt somewhere in his gut.
"I don't know what came over me," Noah muttered. "Sometimes, I don't see boundaries at all."
"Let's agree to move at my pace," Ethan said. "But if at any point you feel like I'm the one rushing, you can—"
He didn't finish the sentence. A humorless smirk had appeared on Noah's lips, and Ethan caught it just in time.
"Are you laughing at me?"
"Oh. What? No! Not at you," Morgan assured Ethan, but when he caught Thomson's skeptical look, he added quickly, "I'm smiling because of what you said. You and rushing things—those two ideas don't belong in the same sentence." Noah rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Please don't think I'm judging you. I'm not. You're careful. And that's a good thing," he mumbled, staring back at his shoes. "I just… I'm not good at being careful. I give in to my emotions too easily. Now, and in general. And look where that usually gets me," he let out a short, bitter laugh. "I bring trouble on myself, and then everyone else has to clean up the mess."
Noah was still smiling, but his body language was telling a different story. He was upset. He understood why Ethan reacted the way he did, yet he still couldn't help but blame himself for everything.
"Ethan has intimacy issues, sure. But he probably doesn't want to kiss me because it's me," Thomson waited when the words would practically appear over Noah's head like one of those little thought bubbles in a comic strip.
Moments were passing by. Morgan was lost in his internal conflicts and reminded more of a stray puppy that was left alone in the rain and curled up in a soggy cardboard box, whining in solitude. The sadder Noah looked, the more something in Ethan flared to life. It wasn't the pitiful expression on Morgan's face that got to him—it was knowing that he was the reason for it. Ethan was used to feeling things for other people but not having others feel something back for him. He wasn't used to being the one whose every word or action actually mattered to someone. And realizing just how much weight another person's affection carried… It was kind of terrifying.
The miserable little puppy ran a hand through his curls absentmindedly. The way he was breathing was still uneven from the kiss. The storm of emotions opened something completely vulnerable under Ethan's oppressive look. Uncertain what to do with himself, Morgan started fighting with the buttons on Ethan's shirt, but his fingers, shaking uncontrollably, refused to cooperate.
Ethan finally took his hand from his mouth, running his tongue over his lips without thinking. There was some taste of champagne left, mixed with something sweet and just a little salty. His heart was pounding, just like a relentless drumbeat in his chest. His blood felt like it was boiling in his veins. The kiss still burned on his lips, searing itself into his memory, impossible to ignore. His skin tingled with the phantom sensation of it, as if it had never really ended. He wasn't much steadier than Noah. Shock was melting into fear, fear into frustration, and frustration into desire. It was an all-consuming hunger for more… and then fear again. And on and on the cycle went. Ethan knew that his tension, his wariness toward intimacy, wasn't just going to magically disappear. It wouldn't simply fade away, no matter how much he wanted it to. But was it stronger than everything else? And if he couldn't completely push it aside, could he at least suppress it for a while?
There was only one way to find out, wasn't there?
Noah was still losing a battle to the buttons when Ethan found himself unforgivably close to him again. Morgan lifted a questioning look to him and, in response, received another light kiss. The delicate touch was supposed to deepen into something more, but Ethan pulled back reflexively before it could happen. Only this time, unlike before, he didn't rush to put distance between them, keeping a distance of just a couple of inches from Noah's face. Morgan kept himself in check, making no move, just watching Ethan carefully.
Slowing down the rising wave of unacceptance of what was going on and letting it be drowned out by a much stronger rush of anticipation, Thomson made a third attempt. This kiss lasted a few precious seconds longer. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might give him a heart attack. A pile of blurred, fragmented memories appeared and had to be shoved back down by the sheer force of will. And yet, Ethan pulled away again. He needed a second to breathe.
"S-sorry," Thomson exhaled, stumbling over the word, frustrated that something so simple for everyone else came so damn hard for him.
"We're not in a rush," Noah pointed out, first glancing over Ethan's shoulder at the event still unfolding behind the panoramic windows, then shifting toward the far edge of the bench. The way he moved freed up some space between his legs—just enough for Ethan's knee. Apparently, Morgan decided that constantly bending down to reach him wasn't all that comfortable for Thomson, so he wordlessly offered him some support.
"We don't have to start with kisses on the lips," Noah added with an awkward smile. And it was honestly… a fair point. "We could try kissing on the cheek—"
Ethan leaned in and kissed him on the neck, just below his earlobe. Morgan shuddered at the unexpected contact but didn't say a word against it. This kind of kiss was undeniably easier to handle. Noah smelled, as always, like the sea. His warm breath ghosted through the thin fabric of the cheap waiter's shirt. Ethan pressed his forehead against Noah's neck and closed his eyes, feeling the familiar fear slowly dissolve into something calmer. He could've stayed like this forever, and not even the dull ache in his lower back would've ruined it.
His lips left another barely-there kiss on Noah's skin. It was such a hesitant kind of closeness for the emotions so intense they were tearing Thomson apart. Each new touch against warm, soft skin erased an old, ugly memory until there was nothing left but a blank, untainted space—untouched by past mistakes. For a moment, he felt fifteen again, quietly dying from every accidental smile in his direction, every glance that felt like it meant something, every low note in the voice of the boy he'd fallen for. That first love, the kind that never promised anything good. Only in this version would Ethan have chosen the right guy. A guy who wouldn't destroy his life after a single line of white powder.
If only we had met sooner.
If only you had been my first love.
The bitterness of regret settled over the growing sense of liberation, which was as thin as a veil. Though, beneath it, a hunger stirred, raw and insatiable. The more Ethan pushed past his own barriers, the more his desire eclipsed his fear, the more he craved to seal his victory with something new, something more.
He grabbed Noah's neck, his hands slipping beneath Morgan's half-unbuttoned shirt. A faint saltiness lingered on his tongue. Ethan touched Noah's stomach, eager to go higher, but Morgan stopped him with a soft touch to his wrist. Ethan barely had time to consider whether he should back off before he felt Noah slip two fingers beneath the edge of his glove and start tugging it down, inch by inch.
What a relentless little menace.
Noah nodded innocently when Ethan told him not to rush. Noah lowered his gaze modestly. Noah clearly expressed regret for his hastiness. And now, that same Noah was shamelessly taking off Ethan's glove, because cunning little Morgan—playing the picture of innocence (and probably believing it himself) —still preferred to do things his own way. With him, anything was possible. It drove Ethan mad just as much as it thrilled him. The defiance was barely there beneath a mask of submission. That recklessness in his gaze clashed with a face burning red from embarrassment.
Ethan pulled back slightly, feeling the heat of Morgan's chest as he pressed Ethan's bare hand to it—a silent permission to keep going without that irritating layer of expensive leather in the way. Morgan's curls were shining under the shifting glow of the fountain lights. The stormy sea in his eyes was foaming, threatening to drown Ethan's patience in a crashing wave and drag him straight to the bottom. His skin burned under Ethan's fingertips. His heart pounded—just as wildly as Ethan's. Not in sync, as it was usually described in romance novels, but their hearts were pounding erratically and feverishly, each racing to outpace the other, like a classic rock song suddenly spiraling into black metal.
Ethan had no idea what the hell he was doing anymore.
Without moving his hand from Noah's chest, he tangled his fingers into Morgan's curls and crashed their lips together. Noah, caught off guard, leaned back instinctively, nearly falling off the bench, which he would definitely do if Ethan hadn't caught him at the last second, folding an arm around his lower back, pulling him in, pressing his knee against Morgan's genital area, making Noah gasp from the sudden friction. And that was when, blinded by sheer want, Ethan let himself go for another kiss, which was way deeper now. At that moment, he was somewhere between raw emotions and whatever common sense he had left, and there he felt the dark weight of something lurking just beyond the moment—something that would eventually twist into a problem, the kind Tulsi would spend more than a few sessions trying to untangle. Or maybe Ethan could sink so deep into this, into Noah, that whatever filth clung to him from the past would drown along with everything else? That would be nice.
Right now, though, Thomson couldn't focus on anything beyond the force of this moment—his entire existence narrowed down to the feel of Noah's lips, the warmth of his skin, the steady, though erratic, rhythm of his heartbeat. Screw the past. Screw whatever the future might bring. Right now, nothing mattered except the pulse of the present, the ragged breaths between them, the joy of victory over himself pounding in his temples, and the slight, shivering tremor of Morgan in his arms.
"Mmh…" Noah let out a low, breathy sound in response to the increased pressure of Ethan's knee against his crotch. That quiet note of pleasure shattered whatever was left of Ethan's restraint. He wanted to push Morgan down onto the bench, tear up that damn shirt that kept getting in the way, run his tongue over his already-hard nipples, and then strip him down completely and—
"Ahem," the loud, deliberate noise nearby hit Ethan like a bucket of ice water. The intoxicating haze of lust vanished in an instant. He wrenched himself away from Morgan—only to catch him again just before he could fall off the bench. Once he was sure Noah had found his balance, Ethan stepped back a few steps and shot a murderous glare at the bastard who had dared to interrupt them. Of course, it was Duncan. The man stood by the entrance, one brow raised meaningfully, his foot tapping against the floor with exaggerated impatience.
"We need to go," Ethan forced out, his voice thick, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
"Uh-huh," Noah responded, though Ethan had the feeling that he wasn't entirely there. Thomson was feeling just the right kind of wrecked himself, but one look at Noah told him that, somehow, he had gotten off easy. Morgan looked like he had mentally launched himself into open space, leaving behind nothing but an autopiloted shell that moved purely out of habit. His shirt was a wrinkled mess; one of the middle buttons was gone. His curls—already unruly on a good day—were now an absolute disaster. His eyes still held the remnants of a storm warning. And then there was the glaring, unmistakable hickey on his neck, a mark so vivid that no one at the event would miss it.
"Morgan, I mean it," Ethan exhaled sharply, trying to pull himself back together. He kept his voice firm, though his own mind kept threatening to slip back to what had happened just moments ago. But he forced himself not to do that. He pulled his glove back on—the one Morgan had peeled off and carelessly discarded— then he adjusted his mask, hiding lips still swollen from kissing. He straightened his shirt, threw his black jacket over it, and turned his attention to the dazed mess that was Noah. It took some effort, but Ethan got him on his feet, fastened his remaining buttons expertly, and tucked his shirt back into his pants. Morgan was going to need another minute—or several—to cool down. So was Thomson, if he was being honest. He stuffed Noah's wine-stained shirt into a paper bag, helped him into his jacket, and tied his tie just tight enough to conceal the missing button.
"Are you back with me?"
"Y-yeah…"
No. Morgan was still floating somewhere deep in his thoughts.
"Morgan, come on, pull yourself together," Ethan narrowed his eyes. He snapped his fingers in front of Noah's face. Finally, the stormy seas settled. His mind that seemed to drift off into outer space, began its slow journey to reality. Morgan seemed to be regaining his consciousness. Unfortunately, so did all of his insecurities. Those insecurities made him blush and then go pale immediately. While he was trying to fix everything by running a hand over his hair, his face turned red all the way from his cheeks down to his neck. Ethan debated whether to tell him the truth. That no matter how hard he tried to compose himself, there was one thing he wasn't going to be able to hide. That hickey, bold and unmissable, peeking out from under his collar. All it needed was a neon sign and a flashing arrow pointing straight at it.
"You're fine. You look great. Stop messing with your hair," Ethan tried to calm Noah down. "Go ahead," Thomson nodded toward the table. Morgan didn't argue. His legs barely seemed to obey him; he trudged in the direction Ethan had pointed, with his mind still not fully back from wherever it had wandered off to.
"I don't even know who to thank, Tulsi or the kid," Duncan commented; of course, Ethan had no doubt he would mock him a little. "Amazing how quickly you can overcome obstacles when you're properly motivated!"
"Not. One. More. Word," Ethan exhaled, shoving the paper bag into Duncan's hands.
"Oh? Did I embarrass you?"
"Duncan, do me a favor and shut the hell up."
"Weird. You had no problem practically stripping Morgan right in front of me!"
Ethan let out a low, muttered string of curses before striding off after Noah. He caught up with him at the table. Under the electric lighting, the hickey stood out even more.
'Yeah… Morgan is definitely not going to thank me for this', Ethan thought with a sigh. Thankfully, most of the guests were too busy to notice either of them. The room buzzed with more interesting gossip. A few of them drifted over to Ethan—curious murmurs of, "Where did the Colemans disappear to?" and "That son of theirs caused trouble again!" followed by an unsurprised, "Not shocked. He's way too spoiled."
Ethan could only guess what these same people had to say about him the second Thomson stepped out of the room.
After all, the main topics of discussion that night were still the successful auction and, apparently, some phenomenal roasted quail in a garlic-walnut and wine sauce.
Morgan, meanwhile, was tearing through his food like a starving man. Either he was genuinely that hungry, or he was stress-eating at a terrifying speed. Ethan, on the other hand, could barely grab a bite. He pushed his food around on his plate absentmindedly, his eyes drifting back to Noah every so often.
"Stop looking at me," came a mumbled, flustered complaint in response to Ethan examining Morgan's funny face.
"Why?"
"Just stop. It's really embarrassing."
"Oh, but when I was jerking you off, you didn't—" Ethan didn't even get to finish the sentence before Noah shot him a look of pure horror.
"Could you keep it down?" he said in an alarmed voice.
"Nobody cares. And there's no one here to eavesdrop. Duncan's on your right. My father's on my left. Even they didn't hear."
"Actually, I did," the bodyguard said unexpectedly with his mouth full of food.
"So did I," Michael Thomson muttered, dabbing his sweaty forehead with a napkin. Ethan clenched his teeth.
Yeah, only because you two were eavesdropping! Maybe focus on your own lives instead of prying into mine!
"I'm tired, and I want to leave," Ethan said, looking at Noah but directing the words at his father. "Do you mind if we call it a day?" He turned back to Morgan, making it clear the question was now meant for him alone.
"No, I don't mind," Noah nodded, looking like he was feeling the exact same way Ethan was. But inside, Thomson was burning with that blinding, gnawing dissatisfaction. Half of his mind was still out on that balcony with Noah, still feeling the heat of his bare skin, still breathing in that intoxicating mix of the ocean air and his own cologne.
"Can we leave early?" Ethan asked in a businesslike manner, as if his father saying "no" would somehow convince him to sit through the rest of the night.
"Of course. You've already lasted longer than usual," Michael winked, lowering his voice so only his son could hear what came next. "Do I need to remind you where we keep the condoms at home?"
"No," Ethan frowned. "And you know well that nothing's going to happen."
"Yeah, you said that last time, too," Michael pointed out. "And how did that turn out?"
Ethan let out a quiet huff.
"This is completely different," he declared, rising from his seat. Noah did the same. "And besides…" Ethan leaned in closer to his father, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I already know where you keep them. Though, I just have a feeling they expired a long time ago."
"Ouch!" Michael clutched his chest in mock injury. "Where did you get that sharp tongue of yours?!" he demanded in exaggerated offense.
"From you."
5' 8"-5' 9"
For the first time, Noah was drowning in emotions that weren't laced with fear or sadness. Everything around him felt like a surreal, honey-sweet dream, one he had no desire to wake up from. Conversations drifted in one ear and out the other, leaving only faint impressions for him to maybe reflect on later. He thought he was eating something good. And there was something about the Colemans being discussed. Meanwhile, Ethan was acting like nothing had happened. How the hell did he manage to keep his emotions under control so well? A few guests would look a little bit more closely at Noah, just a little longer than etiquette allowed. What were they staring at? His neck? Was there something wrong with it?
Ethan kissed me!
The tableware probably looked fancy, Noah wasn't sure, and the knives were so sharp it felt like they could slice through not just the meat but the plate underneath it.
Right on the lips!
The trip back to the car was a complete blur. Just a series of images and colors bleeding into each other like messy paint on a canvas.
And he's an amazing kisser!
It wasn't until they were already on the road that something finally clicked in Noah's head.
"Wait, what happened to Matt?" He blurted out, though maybe he should've started by asking where they were even going. The road they were on wasn't leading to his place.
"Who knows?" Thomson shrugged.
"You."
"Fair point."
"What did you do?"
Ethan just shrugged again.
"Nobody said I did anything."
"But you did."
"I did."
"What exactly?"
"Don't worry, he won't die," Ethan's response was short and led straight to the point.
"Oh, well, gee, thanks for that," Noah muttered. "You know, for a future lawyer, you sure resort to violence a lot when you need to get what you want."
"Violence isn't something I use as a lawyer. It's something I use as someone who wants justice. The lawyer in me just finds the loopholes to make sure I can get away with it," Ethan said matter-of-factly.
"How convenient," Noah scoffed. "Why do you always have to be so reckless?"
"Okay, and what exactly was I supposed to do after he attacked my boyfriend and tried to hit him? Walk up, pat him on the shoulder, and say something like, 'Please, would you be so kind and not do that again'?" Ethan shot back, raising his eyebrow.
"You could've just threatened him a little."
"I can't afford to look that stupid," Ethan informed him.
"What's so stupid about it?!"
"If you and the guy you're talking to aren't fifteen years old, empty threats don't sound convincing. They just turn into some kind of a clown show. 'I'll break your legs!' or 'You're going to regret this!' mean absolutely nothing unless you've got a record of winning a dozen fights in the ring. People aren't as dumb as you think. Threats need to be backed up with something, either physically (by being tall and built like a tank), psychologically (by being a psych evaluation stating you're a danger to others), or legally (by providing a document making it clear that your 'threats' are actually just carefully worded warnings about other types of pressure you can apply). If you don't have any of that, your threats are just hot air."
"I think your threats are pretty well backed up by your father's reputation," Noah pointed out.
"I don't like using my father's name when I should be building my own."
"That's one thing we're always going to disagree on," Noah frowned.
"Yeah," Ethan agreed. "But this topic is going to come up a lot less once people start leaving you alone."
"So is this all my fault?"
"No," Ethan turned off the main road, heading onto an empty path that disappeared into the forest. He flicked on the high beams—the place was in the middle of nowhere. "It's the fault of the people who won't leave you alone," he clarified. "And the faster they realize their actions have consequences, the sooner I can quit using violence," Thomson said. They were getting deeper and deeper into the woods.
"I'd rather you start acting rationally now," Noah mumbled.
"I'm trying."
"We're not living in the Middle Ages."
"I'm glad you get that. I do, too. But does Coleman?" Ethan asked, though he clearly wasn't expecting an answer. "It's great that society has been pushing for more self-acceptance lately. It's getting more understanding and less violent. And I support all of it. But I have one question—does that apply to absolutely everyone?"
"Of course!"
"So you're telling me I should try to understand and be gentle with a pedophile who raped and murdered a five-year-old?"
"Ethan, you're taking it too far."
"Just answer the question. Can I hit a pedophile?"
"His lawyer would latch onto that and—"
"Don't play word games with me using my own logic. I'm not talking about the law; I'm talking about the moral side of things, which you care so much about. So what should I do? Beat the crap out of him or offer him a cup of coffee instead?"
"That's not an easy question."
"It's a very easy question. The fact that you can't immediately say 'coffee' already says a lot about your mindset. So, hitting people is wrong. But hitting pedophiles is okay. What about rapists? Imagine that some scumbag has raped your friend. The police are completely useless. And then one day, you see him walking on the other side of the street with some sweet-looking girl. What are you going to do? Are you going to keep walking because violence is bad? Or are you going to step in and make sure your friend gets justice, right here, right now? Which is the right choice?"
"Jesus, why are you—"
"And what about bullies? The ones who push people to suicide? What about thieves who rob people blind and leave them with no future?"
"Ethan…"
"Let the sweet, vanilla crowd preach their holier-than-thou rules in their little bubble and pat each other on the back about how 'violence is never the answer.' But trying to enforce that mindset everywhere? That's insane. Every single day, people get sentenced for murder, rape, torture, and ruining lives. And what's society doing in the meantime? It's sitting online, being outraged over some actors, counting who insulted who and how many times. Sure, maybe those actors do behave badly. But what about everyone else? Right now, as we speak, some guy who fed his ex-girlfriend to his dogs is walking free because of a procedural error. Or a group of teenagers who burned their classmate alive. Great job, society, way to go. Priorities are solid. Hurting people physically? It's absolutely forbidden. But mentally? Fair game. Why break someone's body when you can destroy their mind instead, right? Why would one want to get their hands dirty when they can push someone to the point where they do it themselves? And what's the funniest part? The fact that it usually works best on the people who don't even deserve it. The real monsters don't care about messages like 'Go kill yourself.' They don't go off to die. They go off to commit another crime. So here's a question: would those criminals have been able to do what they did… if they had two broken legs?"
Noah let out a short, nervous laugh. "You know, Ethan… A few more arguments like that, and I might start thinking you're Batman's successor."
"Because we have the same superpower?"
"You're saying some really messed-up things, but for some reason, I can't stop laughing."
"Let's leave this subject for another time. We'll just agree to disagree for now. I don't want to waste the whole night on an hours-long debate. Deal?" Thomson decided to compromise, though it was obvious that if it were up to him, he'd argue with Noah until his voice would become hoarse. Morgan agreed that now wasn't the best time for a debate—especially since they'd been driving down a dark road for a while now, with no streetlights in sight. Because there were no people around. And also because, not too long ago, they'd been kissing on the balcony, and Noah still hadn't fully recovered from that.
"Who's Tulsi?" Noah asked after a short silence.
Ethan's expression didn't change, but his grip on the wheel tightened.
"My psychiatrist," he said quietly.
"Oh… Uh… Sorry, I just didn't think… God, I'm prying again, aren't I?"
"Why do you say that? You probably should know what kind of psycho you're dating," Ethan smirked.
"You're not a psycho."
"I beat people up," Ethan reminded him with a grin.
"You just have an intense sense of justice that makes you blur the lines of what's acceptable."
"And who draws those lines?"
"Morality."
"And who invented morality?"
Noah hesitated.
"Well… uh…"
"God' isn't an acceptable answer. I'm not religious," Ethan added quickly.
"I don't know the answer to this question," Noah admitted after a moment of thought.
"Me neither," Ethan nodded. "Which is why I always do what feels right in my own understanding."
"And what if you're wrong?"
"Then prove it to me with evidence I can't argue against," Ethan said, pulling into a small clearing. And just like that, every thought in Noah's head vanished. The view before him stole his breath. The city lights stretched out below them like a shimmering garland, glowing in every direction as far as he could see.
"Okay, so it's not the Hollywood Bowl Overlook, but the view isn't bad," Ethan remarked.
"Are you kidding me?! This is amazing!" Noah exclaimed, turning his head in every direction.
"I come here sometimes to clear my head."
"Is it your secret spot?!" Morgan stared at Thomson with childlike excitement. He'd always dreamed of someone sharing a secret place with him, like in the shows.
"Something like that," Ethan didn't argue. "I've never really thought of it that way, though. It's just that no one ever comes here, which is a huge plus for me."
"This is so, so, so cool!" Noah practically jumped out of the car, observing the city lights below. "God, it's beautiful," he exhaled.
A cool breeze ruffled his hair and slipped under his shirt. The leaves rustled softly. Noah tilted his head back and gazed at the stars—the stars he could never see clearly from the city.
"You're doing it wrong," Ethan said suddenly, stepping out of the car and pulling off his mask.
"What am I doing wrong?"
"Looking at the stars," Thomson clarified. "You have to do it like this."
He lay down on the hood of the Bugatti and turned his eyes up to the sky.
"Come on," he tapped the matte surface beside him, not breaking his gaze from above.
"What if I scratch the paint?" Noah hesitated.
"You won't. Just lie down."
Morgan climbed onto the hood carefully and settled next to Ethan slowly. The car was still warm from the drive.
Noah stared up at the sky. Ethan's scent, carried by the wind, became even more distinct. He fought the urge to loosen his tie and turn up his collar, just to breathe it in deeper. Instead, he instinctively reached for his cigarettes and lighter—only realizing he should've asked for permission after he'd already lit up. Ethan gave him a small nod and told him that he shouldn't ask about it next time.
"I used to smoke, too," he clarified.
"Then it should bug you even more! Ex-smokers are usually the worst. Everything smells like cigarettes to them."
"It's fine. I like how tobacco smells on you."
"Just me? Or on everyone?"
"Just you. Cigarettes are like cologne—it suits only certain people. It smells different on everyone."
"Ohhh… I never really paid attention to that," Noah drawled, taking a drag and feeling instant satisfaction. Yeah, that's exactly what he had needed over these past few hours. He wanted a smoke right after his run-in with Matthew, but instead, he got caught up in an attempt to scrub wine stains off his shirt.
"Aren't you going to lecture me about how smoking is bad for my health and that I should quit?" he asked with a melancholy smile. For once, he figured, someone else could be the one teaching Ethan about life and proper behavior.
"Nope. Until a person actually wants to quit, they won't. Trust me, I know."
"You could always give me an ultimatum," Noah decided to make a joke.
Ethan grimaced. "I hate ultimatums."
"How often do you come here?" Noah spoke up again after smoking about half his cigarette.
"Not often."
"And are you always alone?"
"Always."
"So am I the first to join you here?"
"Yes, you are."
"That's kind of sweet," Noah murmured, taking his last drag and unintentionally exhaling the smoke in Ethan's direction, who had turned toward him and had been quietly watching him for a while now.
"You're sweet," Thomson replied, locking eyes with him.
That night, Noah checked off not one but two romantic dreams:
Be in a secret place that belongs to the guy I like—done.
Kiss the guy I like until sunrise—done, aaand done.