Brewer shrugs, lips curving. “Didn’t want to.”
They stay under the water until it runs cool, but their kisses are plenty hot.
They don’t rush to dry off.
Brewer’s back is warm against the side of Nash’s chest, both of them wrapped in damp towels, legs tangled on the edge of the bed like they half-fell there and never bothered to fix it. The room smells like soap and heat.
Nash’s fingers trace lazy circles on Brewer’s ribs.
“Y’know,” Nash murmurs, “you always go quiet after.”
Brewer huffs, more breath than laugh. “Not everything needs commentary.”
“No,” Nash says, voice soft, “but some things need saying.”
Brewer goes still. Not stiff, just thoughtful, like he’s turning something over carefully in his mouth before deciding whether to say it out loud.
He finally exhales. “I used to think intimacy meant… pretending. Like I had to perform closeness, instead of actually feel it. Keep it surface-level. Safe. Nothing sharp enough to leave a mark.”
Nash doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.
Brewer swallows. “But with you... it’s like I forget to put the armor back on. And that scares the shit out of me.”
Nash leans in and kisses the back of his neck. “Scared’s okay. Means it matters.”
Brewer closes his eyes.
“I’m not used to being wanted without a reason,” he admits, quieter now. “Not for a job. Not for something I can fix. Just... me. As I am.”
“You ever think maybe you are the reason?” Nash says softly. “Not the skills, not the past, not the patchwork of pain—you.”
Brewer doesn’t answer right away. His hand reaches down and threads through Nash’s, gripping it tight, grounding.
“I’m trying,” he says.
“I know,” Nash whispers. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Camp Balls
Summer Camp Madness
The kids sit in the rec room like perfect angels. Quiet. Straight-backed. Hands folded. A few smile politely. One is reading. Another is coloring within the lines. It feels safe. But little do the guys know it’s a false calm.
“See?” Riggs says, arms folded and looking very pleased with himself. “Told you. Piece of cake.”
West squints. “Why are they so quiet?”
Brandt leans toward Jax. “Is this a prank? Are they robots? Clones?”
“Don’t jinx it,” Jax hisses.
“They’rechildren,” Riggs replies. “You’re seasoned battle-hardened soldiers. As he exits the room, leaving them to their fates, West grabs his clipboard from his hands.
“I need this more than you do. Hand over the whistle, too.”
Riggs smirks. “You’ve got this.”
“IknowI don’t,” Nash says flatly. He hasn’t sat down. He’s scanning the room like he expects one of the kids to jump up and start screaming tactical codes.
