Swim At Your Own Risk

Four Tides to Forever

SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK. The letters are chipped, the metal bent at one corner like someone took a swing at it and missed. It’s bolted to a wooden post that’s been bleached gray by too many summers, and it stands at the top of the path where the boardwalk gives way to sand. I’ve read it a hundred times. Maybe more. It says the same thing every time, which is the only honest thing about it.

The heat today is stupid. It’s the kind of heat that sits on your shoulders like a wet blanket, that makes your shirt stick to your back before you’ve even walked a block. I’ve been in this beach town for three days, and every afternoon hits the same: the sun gets mean around two, the air gets thick and still, and the ocean starts looking less like water and more like a dare.

I’m sun-drunk and restless. Too hot to think straight. My skin feels tight, my head feels fuzzy, and the only thing that makes sense is getting wet.

So I read the sign. I smirk. And I keep walking.

The sand is hot enough to burn through the soles of my flip-flops. I kick them off at the edge of the wet zone and let my toes sink into the cooler stuff underneath. There aren’t many people out. A family with a screaming toddler. Two old women under an umbrella, reading paperbacks and not talking. A guy throwing a tennis ball for a golden retriever that never seems to get tired.

And then there’s him.

He’s standing at the sign. Not reading it, exactly. More like he’s stopped there, one hand on the post, looking out at the water like he’s trying to decide something. He’s got dark hair, cut short, and a jaw that could cut glass. Broad shoulders. A white t-shirt that’s already clinging to his chest. He’s not looking at me.

But I’m looking at him.

I slow down. Not on purpose. It just happens, the way your foot eases off the gas when you see something worth paying attention to. He’s got that thing. That quality that makes you stop, makes you look, makes you wonder what his voice sounds like and whether he’d laugh at your jokes.

He turns his head. Sees me.

And we share this look. It lasts a beat too long. The kind of look that feels like a dare.

I don’t know what he sees. A guy my age, maybe a little younger. Messy brown hair that needs a cut. A lean frame that’s been called wiry and lanky and, once, by a girl in college, “built like a question mark.” I’m wearing board shorts and nothing else. My sunglasses are pushed up on my head. I probably look like every other tourist who wandered down here without a plan.

But his eyes stay on mine. And mine stay on his.

He smirks first. Just a little. Just enough.

I smirk back.

And then I keep walking toward the water, because what else am I supposed to do? Stand there and stare at him until we both turn to salt? The waves are breaking about twenty yards out. The water looks gray-green and cold, which is exactly what I need.

I hear his footsteps behind me before I see him. The soft crunch of sand, then the splash as he hits the wet zone. He’s walking the same direction. Toward the water. Toward the same patch of ocean I’m heading for.

I don’t look back. But I know he’s there.

The first wave hits my ankles and I suck in a breath. It’s cold. Colder than I expected. The kind of cold that makes your bones ache for a second before you get used to it. I keep walking. The water climbs up my calves, my knees, my thighs. I’m already shivering, but it feels good. It feels like the heat is being peeled off my skin.

I hear him hit the water behind me. A splash, a sharp exhale. He’s not wasting time either.

I dive under.

The cold hits my face, my chest, my whole body. It’s a shock. A good one. The kind that clears your head and makes you remember you’re alive. I stay under for a few seconds, let the salt water sting my eyes, let the silence press against my ears. When I surface, I’m twenty feet out, treading water, blinking the salt out of my vision.

He’s right there.

Not close enough to touch. But close. Maybe ten feet away. He’s floating on his back, arms spread, eyes closed. The water lifts him up and down with the swell. He looks completely at ease, like he was born in the ocean.

I watch him for a second. I can’t help it.

He opens his eyes. Looks at me. That smirk again.

“Cold,” he says.

His voice is lower than I expected. Rough. Like he just woke up or just got done yelling.

“Yeah,” I say. “Feels good though.”

He nods. Pushes himself upright, starts treading water. We’re both moving, both keeping ourselves afloat, but neither of us is swimming away. The space between us feels charged. Like static electricity before a storm.

He dips under. Comes up closer.

“Tourist?” he asks.

“Guilty.”

“Where from?”

“City. About four hours north.”

He nods like that makes sense. “Here for the week?”

“Few more days. You?”

“Live here.”

“Lucky.”

He shrugs. “It’s a town. Same shit, different view.”

I laugh. It comes out easier than I expected. He’s got this way about him. Relaxed. Unbothered. Like nothing in the world could make him hurry.

A wave rolls in, bigger than the others. It lifts us both, drops us. When I come back up, he’s closer. Five feet. Maybe less.

“Your sign’s a liar,” I say.

“What sign?”

“Back there. The swim at your own risk one.”

He looks toward the beach, then back at me. “It’s not a liar. People drown here all the time.”

“Really?”

“Rip currents. Undertow. Tourists who don’t know what they’re doing.” He says it flat, like he’s reciting a fact. “But the water’s fine today.”

“So the risk is low.”

“The risk is always there. You just decide if it’s worth it.”

The way he says it. The way his eyes hold mine. I know we’re not talking about swimming anymore.

I don’t look away. “And how do you decide?”

He moves closer. Not a big movement. Just a shift, a drift, the current doing half the work. His shoulder brushes mine. The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

“I pay attention,” he says. “I figure out what I want. And then I take it.”

My heart is pounding. I can feel it in my throat, my chest, the tips of my fingers. The water is cold but I’m not cold anymore. I’m burning.

“Yeah?” My voice sounds different. Rougher. Hungrier.

“Yeah.”

He reaches out. Under the water. His hand finds my hip. His fingers curl around the waistband of my board shorts. It’s a light touch. Testing. Asking.

I answer by moving closer.

Our chests press together. The water sloshes around us, hiding everything below the surface. His hand stays on my hip. Mine finds his shoulder. His skin is warm despite the cold water. Warm and solid and real.

“We shouldn’t,” he says.

“Probably not.”

“But I want to.”

“Me too.”

That’s all it takes. That’s the whole conversation. Two strangers in the ocean, a beat too long, a hand on a hip, and a shared understanding that this is happening. Whatever this is. Whatever it becomes.

He kisses me first.

His mouth is cold and then it’s warm. The salt on his lips tastes like the ocean. Like summer. Like something I didn’t know I was missing until this second. His hand tightens on my hip, pulling me closer, and I let him. I let him because I want to. Because I’ve been hot and restless and too hot to think straight, and this is the only thing that makes sense.

We break apart. Breathe. Look at each other.

“Follow me,” he says.

He turns and starts swimming, a slow, steady stroke that cuts through the water. I follow. I don’t ask where we’re going. I don’t care. The sun is still high, the water is still cold, and there’s a man in front of me who kissed me like he meant it.

He leads me around a curve in the coastline. Past a jetty of black rocks. Toward a cove I didn’t know was here. The beach narrows, the cliffs rise up on either side, and suddenly the noise of the main beach is gone. No screaming kids. No barking dogs. Just the sound of waves hitting rock and our own breathing.

He stops where the water is shallow enough to stand. The bottom is sandy here, soft under my feet. The cliffs block out most of the sun, leaving the cove in shadow. It’s cooler. Quieter. Private.

He turns to face me. Water drips from his hair, runs down his face, his neck, his chest. He’s breathing hard from the swim. So am I.

“Better,” he says.

“What is?”

“This.” He gestures at the cove, at the cliffs, at the space between us. “No one comes here.”

“Good.”

He steps closer. His hands find my waist. Mine find his chest. His skin is slick and warm and I can feel his heartbeat under my palm. Fast. Steady. Matching mine.

We don’t talk after that.

We don’t need to.

He kisses me again, and this time there’s nothing tentative about it. His mouth is open, hungry, demanding. His tongue slides against mine and I make a sound I didn’t know I was capable of. A low, desperate sound that gets swallowed by the waves.

His hands move. Down my sides. Over my hips. Around to my ass. He grips me, hard, pulls me against him. I can feel him through the water, through the fabric of our shorts. He’s hard. I’m hard. We’re both hard and we’re both done pretending.

I push his shorts down. He kicks them off. They float away, disappear, who cares. His hands are on the waistband of mine, pushing, pulling, and then I’m naked too. Skin to skin. Chest to chest. Nothing between us but water and want.

I crush my mouth to his, a desperate, hungry thing. No more hesitation. He meets me with equal force, his lips parting, his tongue finding mine. It’s a messy, perfect kiss, all teeth and need and the taste of lake water. We’re devouring each other, hands roaming, gripping, pulling each other impossibly closer.

He breaks the kiss, panting, his eyes dark and fixed on mine. Without a word, he puts a firm hand on my shoulder and pushes down. I sink to my knees, the water swirling around my chest. His cock juts out, thick and perfect, flushed a deep rose. I lean in and take him into my mouth.

The salt-sweet precum slicks my tongue as I wrap my lips around his head. He groans, a guttural sound that vibrates through his whole body and into mine. I take him deeper, working my tongue along the sensitive underside, feeling him throb against my palate. His hands find my hair, not guiding, just holding on, his fingers tangling in the wet strands. I bob my head, finding a rhythm, one hand braced on his hip, the other cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently. He starts to move, shallow thrusts into my mouth, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

After a few minutes, he pulls back, his cock slipping from my lips with a wet pop. He tugs me to my feet and kisses me again, deep and possessive, tasting himself on my tongue. Then he returns the favor. He kneels before me, looking up at me with an expression of raw adoration before bowing his head. His mouth is hot, impossibly hot, and so, so good. He’s skilled, his tongue a wicked instrument of pleasure as it swirls around my head and traces the ridge. He takes me deep, his nose pressed into my pubic hair, and I see stars. My head falls back, my eyes closing as the sensation washes over me. He works me relentlessly, one hand stroking my shaft in time with his mouth, the other gripping my ass, pulling me into him.

He rises, turning me around to face the shore. He’s behind me now, his chest pressed to my back, his hard cock nestled between my ass cheeks. His arms wrap around my chest, holding me tight. He kisses the nape of my neck, a soft, tender gesture that contrasts with the hard length of him pressing against me. “Ready?” he murmurs against my skin.

I can only nod, my throat too tight to speak.

He reaches down, guiding himself to my quivering hole. He pushes in, slowly, carefully, giving me time to adjust to the thick, burning stretch. It’s intense, a sharp edge of pain that melts into a deep, overwhelming pleasure as he seats himself fully inside me. He stills, letting me get used to him, his lips pressed to my shoulder. Then he starts to move.

His first few thrusts are slow, deliberate. He establishes a rhythm, a deep, steady rocking that sends waves of pleasure through me with every stroke. The water splashes around us with each movement. I reach back, gripping his hip, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. He answers, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. He’s hitting that spot inside me, over and over, turning my bones to water. My own cock is rock-hard, bobbing in the water, aching for attention.

He pulls out, turning me to face him again. He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he holds me up, my back against the sun-warmed rock. He slides back into me in one smooth motion, and the new angle is exquisite. He’s deeper than before, filling me completely. I’m completely at his mercy, held up by his strength and the rock behind me. He fucks me like this, his eyes locked on mine, watching every flicker of pleasure on my face. My own cock is trapped between our bodies, rubbing against his stomach with every thrust, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up my spine.

I can feel my orgasm building, a tightening in my balls, a coiling heat low in my gut. “I’m close,” I gasp out.

“Me too,” he grits out, his rhythm becoming erratic, his thrusts harder, more desperate. He buries his face in my neck, his teeth grazing my skin. “Cum with me,” he growls, his voice rough and strained. “Now.”

My cock erupts, spurting thick ropes of cum between our chests, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. At the same moment, I feel him swell inside me, his own load flooding my insides with a searing heat. He pulses, again and again, his body shuddering against mine as he empties himself deep within me. He holds me tight, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us gasping for air, our hearts hammering against each other’s ribs.

We stay like that for a minute. Maybe longer. Wrapped around each other, breathing hard, the water lapping at our skin. His face is buried in my neck. My fingers are tangled in his wet hair.

Neither of us speaks.

Finally, he lowers me. My feet find the sandy bottom. I’m shaky. Wobbly. He keeps a hand on my waist to steady me.

“Shit,” I say.

He laughs. A real laugh. Surprised and warm.

“Yeah,” he says. “Shit.”

We find our shorts. They’ve drifted a few feet away, caught against a rock. We pull them on, waterlogged and ridiculous. We sit on a flat rock that’s been warmed by the sun, our feet dangling in the water, our shoulders touching.

The silence is comfortable. Not awkward. The kind of silence that comes after something big, when words would just get in the way.

The sun is starting to drop. The shadows are getting longer. I should go back to my rental. Shower. Figure out dinner. But I don’t want to move.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

I turn to look at him. He’s watching me. His eyes are dark in the fading light. Serious.

“Leo,” I say.

He nods. “Leo.”

“Yours?”

“Marcus.”

“Marcus.”

We sit with that. With the weight of names, of knowing, of having something real to call each other now.

“I should go,” I say.

“Yeah.”

Neither of us moves.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

I look at him. At the water. At the sign I can’t see from here but know is still there, warning people about risks they don’t understand.

“Yeah,” I say. “Same time.”

We stand. We walk back toward the main beach, side by side, our footprints mixing in the wet sand. The sun is lower now. The heat is starting to break. The family with the toddler is packing up. The old women are still reading. The golden retriever is passed out in the shade.

We stop at the path. At the edge where the sand meets the boardwalk.

“See you tomorrow, Leo,” Marcus says.

“See you tomorrow.”

He walks one way. I walk the other. My skin tastes like salt. My body feels wrung out and alive. I can still feel the pressure of his hands on my hips, the scrape of his stubble on my neck, the sound of his voice saying my name.

The sign is a liar. But I love it anyway.

Because some risks are worth taking.

That night I can’t sleep.

The rental has thin walls and a ceiling fan that clicks with every rotation. Click. Click. Click. I’ve counted three hundred and forty-seven clicks and I’m still wide awake, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looks like a hand reaching for something.

My body remembers everything. The cold shock of the water. The heat of his skin. The way the rock felt against my back, rough and unyielding, while he moved inside me. I shift under the sheet and my thighs ache. A good ache. The kind that makes you smile in the dark like an idiot.

I touch my lip where he bit it. Still tender.

I wonder if he’s lying awake too. If he’s in some apartment somewhere, staring at his own ceiling, replaying the same moments. The way I gasped. The way I said his name. The way I held on like he was the only solid thing in a world made of water.

Probably not. He probably sleeps like a log. Guys like him always do.

I roll over. Punch the pillow. Stare at the wall.

The clock on the nightstand says 2:47 AM. I’ve got hours before the sun comes up. Hours before I walk back down that path, past that sign, toward the water where he’ll be waiting.

If he shows up.

The thought hits me like a cold wave. What if it was just a thing. A beach hookup. A story he’ll tell his friends over beers. *Some tourist I met in the water. Yeah, it was hot. No, I didn’t get his number.* What if tomorrow comes and I’m standing in the shallows like an idiot, watching the horizon, waiting for a guy who’s already forgotten my name.

I tell myself to stop. It doesn’t work.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That’s a lie too.

I finally drift off around four. My sleep is thin and restless, full of half-formed dreams where I’m swimming and swimming and never getting anywhere. I wake up with the sun in my eyes and sand in places sand shouldn’t be.

The day stretches out in front of me like a dare.

---

I kill time. That’s what I do. I kill time the way tourists kill time in beach towns. I get coffee from a place that calls itself a café but is really just a shack with an espresso machine. I walk the boardwalk. I buy a t-shirt I don’t need. I sit on a bench and watch the waves and try not to think about Marcus.

I fail.

Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Floating on his back. That smirk. The way his hand found my hip under the water like it belonged there.

At noon I eat a sandwich I don’t taste. At one I buy a book I’ll never read. At two I’m back at the beach, standing at the top of the path, staring at the sign.

SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK.

The words feel different today. Heavier. Like they’re talking about something bigger than rip currents.

I walk down to the sand. The heat is just as stupid as yesterday. Maybe worse. The air shimmers over the beach like a fever dream. I find a spot near the water and spread out my towel. I don’t go in. Not yet. I sit and I wait and I watch.

The beach is busier today. More families. More kids. More noise. A group of teenagers is playing volleyball nearby, their shouts carrying over the sound of the waves. A woman is selling ice cream from a cart, ringing a bell that sounds like a church on wheels.

I scan the water. Nothing.

I scan the shoreline. Nothing.

I tell myself it’s early. I tell myself he said same time, not right now. I tell myself to relax.

My knee bounces. I can’t make it stop.

At 2:45 I can’t sit anymore. I strip off my shirt, kick off my flip-flops, and walk into the water. It’s cold. Not as cold as yesterday, but close enough. I keep walking until I’m chest-deep, then I dive under.

The silence is a relief. Under the water, there’s nothing to wait for. No one to watch for. Just the salt and the pressure and the sound of my own heartbeat.

I surface. Tread water. Look toward the shore.

And there he is.

He’s walking down the beach. Same board shorts, different shirt. A gray one this time, loose, billowing in the breeze. He’s got sunglasses on and a towel over his shoulder and he looks like he owns the place. Which, I guess, he kind of does.

He sees me. I see him see me.

That smirk.

I hate how much I love it.

He doesn’t run. He doesn’t hurry. He walks at the same pace, unhurried, unbothered, like he has all the time in the world. He drops his towel on the sand. He takes off his sunglasses. He walks into the water.

The cold hits him the same way it hit me. I see it in the way his breath catches, the way his shoulders tighten. But he keeps coming. Wading deeper. Until he’s close enough to touch.

“You showed up,” I say.

“Told you I would.”

“People say things.”

He stops in front of me. The water is at his chest. At my neck. We’re close enough that I can see the water beading on his eyelashes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, the way his pupils dilate when he looks at me.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he says.

The words land somewhere deep in my chest. I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t know what to do with any of this. So I do the only thing that makes sense.

I kiss him.

It’s softer than yesterday. Slower. There’s no rush, no hunger, no rock wall pressing into my back. Just his mouth on mine, his hands on my waist, the water rocking us gently like we’re being held.

When we break apart, he’s smiling. A real smile. Not a smirk.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

We swim out to the cove. It feels different in the daylight. The cliffs are taller than I remembered, the water clearer. I can see the sandy bottom, the rocks, the occasional flash of silver as a fish darts past. The sun hits the water at an angle that turns everything green and gold.

We sit on the same flat rock. Our feet in the water. Our shoulders touching.

“I thought about you last night,” he says.

“Liar.”

“I did.”

“What’d you think about?”

He looks at me. His eyes are dark and serious and there’s something in them I can’t quite name.

“Everything,” he says. “The way you looked when you came. The sound you made. The way you said my name.”

My face gets hot. I look away.

“Sorry,” he says. “Too much?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Just. I thought about you too.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He just sits there, his shoulder warm against mine, and lets the silence do its work.

---

We talk for hours.

I learn that he works at a boat rental place on the other side of town. That he’s lived here his whole life, except for two years in college that he dropped out of because “it wasn’t for me.” That his mom lives three blocks from the beach and calls him every Sunday to make sure he’s eating vegetables.

I learn that he’s twenty-four. That he’s never been in love. That he’s been with guys and girls and doesn’t really care about the label. That his favorite thing in the world is swimming at dawn when the beach is empty and the water is flat and it feels like the whole ocean belongs to him.

I tell him about my life. The city. The job I hate. The apartment I can barely afford. The way I feel like I’m always waiting for something but I don’t know what it is.

“Maybe you’re waiting for this,” he says.

“Cheesy.”

“Shut up.”

But he’s smiling. And I’m smiling. And the sun is starting to drop and I don’t want to leave.

“I should get dinner,” I say.

“Me too.”

“Want to get it together?”

He looks at me. That look. The one that makes my stomach flip.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

---

We eat at a place called The Sand Dollar. It’s the kind of restaurant that has plastic lobsters on the walls and a jukebox that only plays songs from the 80s. The food is mediocre. The beer is cold. The company is perfect.

We sit in a booth by the window. The sun is setting, painting the whole room orange and pink. He’s across from me, his knee brushing mine under the table. He’s eating a burger. I’m eating fish tacos. We’re both laughing at nothing.

“So what happens tomorrow?” I ask.

He chews. Swallows. Wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“What do you want to happen?”

“I asked you first.”

He leans back. Studies me. I feel like I’m being read, like he’s turning me over in his mind and looking at all my edges.

“I want to see you again,” he says. “Tomorrow. The day after. However many days you’re here.”

“And then?”

“And then we figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

He reaches across the table. Takes my hand. His palm is warm and rough and I can feel the calluses from working with ropes and boats.

“This,” he says. “Whatever this is.”

I look at our hands. At his fingers laced through mine. At the way the fading sun catches the edges of his face.

“I’m only here for three more days,” I say.

“Then we make them count.”

After dinner we walk back to the beach. It’s dark now. The boardwalk is lit with string lights that make everything look soft and golden. The waves crash in the distance, a steady rhythm that feels like breathing.

We find a spot on the sand. Lie down. Stare at the stars.

“I forget how many there are,” I say. “In the city you can’t see anything.”

“Light pollution.”

“Yeah.”

He points. “See that one? The bright one?”

“Venus?”

“Close. Jupiter.”

“Show-off.”

He laughs. Rolls onto his side. Props himself up on his elbow and looks down at me. His face is half in shadow, half in moonlight. He looks like something out of a painting.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Sure.”

“Why’d you stop that day? At the sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw you,” he says. “Walking down the path. You stopped. You looked at me. And then you kept going.”

I remember. The heat. The restlessness. The way his eyes caught mine and held.

“I don’t know,” I say. “You were just. There. And I couldn’t look away.”

“Neither could I.”

He leans down. Kisses me. Soft and slow and full of everything we haven’t said yet.

We stay on the beach until the stars start to fade and the sky turns gray at the edges. We talk about nothing and everything. We kiss until my lips are raw. We fall asleep tangled together on a towel that’s too small for both of us.

I wake up with sand in my hair and his arm around my waist and the sun rising over the ocean.

I’ve never felt more alive.

---

The next day is a blur of small moments.

Coffee at the shack. A walk along the jetty. Swimming in the cove, slower this time, lazier. We float on our backs and hold hands and let the current carry us wherever it wants.

He takes me to the boat rental place. Shows me the skiffs and the kayaks and the paddleboards. Introduces me to his coworker, a woman named Rosa who looks at us both and smiles like she knows exactly what’s going on.

“So this is the tourist,” she says.

“Leo,” I say.

“Right. The tourist.” She winks at Marcus. “He’s been weird all week. Now I know why.”

Marcus shoves her. She laughs.

We take a kayak out. Paddle past the jetty, past the cove, past the point where the water turns deep and blue. He’s in front, I’m in back, and we move together without having to think about it. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. The rhythm of it is hypnotic.

We find a spot where the water is clear and the bottom is visible. Coral. Rocks. Fish in colors I don’t have names for. He reaches back and touches my knee.

“Pretty,” he says.

“Yeah.”

But I’m not looking at the water.

That night we go to his apartment.

It’s small. One bedroom. A couch that’s seen better days. A kitchen with dishes in the sink and a plant on the windowsill that’s definitely dead. There are photos on the wall. His mom. A group of friends. A dog that I don’t ask about.

He’s nervous. I can tell. He’s never had anyone over before. Not like this.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I should have cleaned.”

“Marcus.”

He stops. Looks at me.

“Stop,” I say. “It’s perfect.”

He kisses me. We don’t make it to the bedroom. We end up on the couch, on the floor, against the wall. He’s desperate and I’m desperate and we’re both trying to memorize each other. The way skin tastes. The way breath sounds. The way it feels to be wanted like this.

We’re on the floor now, a tangle of limbs and frantic hands. He rips my shirt open, buttons flying, and his mouth is on my chest, hot and wet. I arch up, my fingers fumbling with his belt, his zipper. I get his jeans open and shove them down, along with his boxers. His cock springs free, hard and leaking. I wrap my hand around him, feeling the heat, the silky skin over steel, and he groans into my neck. He kicks his pants away and then his hands are on my own jeans, yanking them down. I lift my hips to help, and then we’re both naked, skin on skin, the friction delicious.

He pushes me onto my back and follows me down, settling between my thighs. He kisses me again, deep and dirty, one hand sliding down my side to grip my ass, pulling me closer. Our cocks slide together, a slick, perfect friction that makes me gasp. He rocks his hips, a slow, deliberate grind that drives me insane. I want more. I need more.

“Turn over,” he growls against my lips.

I obey without hesitation, flipping onto my stomach and pushing up onto my hands and knees. He kneels behind me, his hands spreading my cheeks. I feel his breath first, a warm puff of air against my hole, and then his tongue. He licks me, a broad, flat stroke that makes me shudder. He does it again, and again, his tongue circling, probing, dipping inside. It’s filthy and perfect and I’m moaning into the carpet, pushing back against his face. He eats me out with a single-minded intensity, his tongue fucking me, his teeth scraping gently against my rim. I’m already close, my balls drawing up, my cock aching.

He pulls back, and I whimper at the loss. I hear the wet sound of him spitting, and then I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my wet hole. He pushes in, slow and steady, and the stretch is perfect. He fills me completely, inch by thick inch, until he’s buried to the hilt. He stills for a moment, letting me adjust, his hands stroking my lower back.

“Okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

“More. Please.”

He starts to move, his hips pulling back and then thrusting forward, deep and hard. He sets a punishing pace, his balls slapping against my ass with every stroke. He’s hitting my prostate with every thrust, sending jolts of pure pleasure through me. I’m reduced to a whimpering mess, my arms trembling, my head hanging down. He reaches around, his hand finding my cock, stroking me in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is too much.

“I’m gonna cum,” I choke out.

“Do it,” he commands, his voice a low growl. “Cum all over the floor.”

His words are my undoing. I cry out as my orgasm rips through me, my cock pulsing, spilling my load onto the carpet beneath me. My ass clenches around him, and he groans, his rhythm faltering. He thrusts into me one last time, deep and hard, and I feel him um, a hot flood filling me up. He collapses on top of me, his weight a welcome pressure, his face buried in my neck. We’re both breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat.Afterward, we lie on the floor. The carpet is scratchy. The ceiling fan clicks. I don’t care.

“Tomorrow’s your last day,” he says.

“I know.”

“What do you want to do?”

I turn my head. Look at him. His hair is a mess. His lips are swollen. His eyes are tired and bright and full of something I’m afraid to name.

“Everything,” I say. “I want to do everything.”

---

We wake up early. Earlier than early. The sun isn’t even up yet. He makes coffee and we drink it on his tiny balcony, watching the sky turn from black to purple to pink.

“Swim?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

We walk to the beach in the dark. The boardwalk is empty. The string lights are off. The only sound is our footsteps and the distant crash of waves.

The sign is waiting.

SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK.

I stop. Read it. Feel the weight of those words in a way I haven’t before.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. Just. This sign.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “It’s been there the whole time. Every day. Warning people. And I just. Kept walking.”

He steps closer. Takes my hand.

“Some risks are worth taking,” he says.

My words. From the first day. He remembered.

“Yeah,” I say. “They are.”

We walk into the water. It’s cold. Colder than any other morning. The kind of cold that steals your breath and makes your bones ache. We keep going. Deeper. Until we’re swimming, our strokes cutting through the dark water, our bodies leaving trails of phosphorescence.

The cove is different in the dawn light. The cliffs are sharp and black against the pale sky. The water is flat and gray and perfect.

We float. We don’t talk. There’s nothing left to say that we haven’t already said.

He reaches for me. I reach for him. We hold each other in the water, our legs tangled, our faces close.

“I don’t want this to end,” he says.

“Me neither.”

“Then don’t let it.”

I look at him. At his dark eyes and his wet hair and the way his mouth is set in a line that’s trying not to tremble.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying stay.”

“Marcus.”

“I know. I know it’s crazy. I know we’ve known each other for four days. I know this doesn’t make sense.” He takes a breath. “But I’ve never felt this way about anyone. And I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and have you be gone.”

I don’t know what to say. My heart is pounding. My brain is screaming. My body is pressed against his and I don’t want to let go.

“I have a job,” I say.

“Quit it.”

“An apartment.”

“Sublet it.”

“A life.”

“Start a new one.”

I laugh. It comes out wet and broken.

“You’re insane,” I say.

“Probably.”

“We barely know each other.”

“So we’ll learn.”

I look at him. At the water. At the cliffs. At the sky that’s getting brighter by the second.

“I can’t just. Stay. That’s not how life works.”

“It can be.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But there’s a voice in my head, a practical voice, a voice that sounds like my father, telling me this is crazy. This is reckless. This is exactly the kind of thing that gets you hurt.

But there’s another voice. A quieter one. A voice that sounds like the ocean.

It says: Some risks are worth taking.

“Give me a reason,” I say. “Give me one good reason why I should stay.”

He looks at me. His eyes are steady. His hands are warm on my skin.

“Because I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says. “And I want to find out if I’m right.”

The words hit me like a wave. They knock the breath out of me. They leave me gasping and shaking and completely undone.

“Say it again,” I whisper.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Leo.”

I kiss him. Hard. The water splashes around us. The sun breaks over the cliffs. The world turns gold.

“Okay,” I say against his mouth.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

He pulls back. Looks at me. His face is a mess of hope and disbelief and joy.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He laughs. A loud, surprised laugh that echoes off the cliffs. He picks me up. Spins me around. The water flies everywhere and I’m laughing too, laughing because this is insane, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done, and I don’t care.

We swim back to shore. We walk to his apartment. We fall into bed and make love like we’re trying to prove something. Like we’re trying to seal a deal with our bodies.

Afterward, he falls asleep. His arm is draped over my chest. His breath is warm on my neck. I stare at the ceiling and listen to the fan click and try to figure out what I’ve just done.

I’ve just thrown away my life. My job. My apartment. My city. All of it. For a guy I met four days ago in the ocean.

It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

It’s the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

I don’t know which. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

I close my eyes. I listen to his heartbeat. I let myself believe that this is real.

---

Three weeks later, I’m still here.

I called my boss. Quit. He was angry. I didn’t care. I called my landlord. Told him I wasn’t coming back. He kept the deposit. I didn’t care. I called my mom. She cried. She asked if I was sure. I said yes.

I’m sure.

I got a job at the same boat rental place. Rosa trained me. She’s patient. She’s also nosy.

“So you really just…stayed?”

“Yep.”

“For a guy you met in the ocean?”

“Yep.”

“You’re insane.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She shakes her head. But she’s smiling.

Marcus and I have a routine now. We wake up early. We swim. We work. We eat dinner on the balcony. We fall asleep tangled together. It’s simple. It’s ordinary. It’s everything I didn’t know I needed.

Some nights I lie awake and wonder if this will last. If the magic will fade. If we’ll wake up one day and realize we made a mistake.

But then he rolls over. He pulls me close. He mumbles something in his sleep that sounds like my name.

And I know.

This is where I’m supposed to be.