I raise one right back, trying not to wince as I shift my weight. “If it’s spa security,” I mutter, “I’m throwing myself off the balcony.”
He chuckles, doesn’t answer, just strides over and opens the door.
It’s not spa security.
It’s worse.
Standing there is a man in a perfectly pressed uniform—resort management, clearly—posture stiff, smile polite, and radiating the kind of weary professionalism that says he’s definitely not paid enough to deal with honeymooners like us.
He clears his throat, offers Damian a small, neatly folded piece of paper, nods once, and walks away without a single word.
Damian closes the door behind him with the kind of calm that only makes me more nervous, then unfolds the note like he already knows it’s going to be good. His eyes flick down, and he snorts—short and sharp—before reading aloud in a dry drawl, “‘Dear Mr. and Mr. Kade, While we sincerely hope you are enjoying your honeymoon, we kindly ask that guests refrain from—’” he pauses, lips twitching, “‘—excessive vocalization during spa treatments.’”
I make a strangled noise—part gasp, part dying whale—and collapse backward onto the couch, dragging both hands over my face. “Oh my god, they actuallywrotethat?”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts the paper higher and says, “There’s more.”
“Don’t—”
“‘—or other intimate conduct in shared wellness areas. Our staff is not trained for… that level of service. Thank you for understanding.’”
I let out a groan so loud it might qualify as another offense. My palms are glued to my face. My ears are on fire. “But it’s ourhoneymoon,” I mutter through my fingers, already picturingthe poor masseuse sprinting for the exit while I got railed into nirvana.
Damian, naturally, is the picture of zero remorse. His smirk alone could peel the paint off every wall in the suite. “Should’ve written that on the waiver,” he says, tossing the note onto the table. “Or printed it on a damn shirt.”
I peek at him between my fingers, glare as best I can while still mortified. “You’re not even sorry.”
He crosses the room without missing a beat, crouches between my knees like it’s instinct, and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. His voice is a growl against my skin. “I’mcelebrating, pup.”
The night wraps around us like a secret.
The air is thick with salt and the hum of waves lapping the sand beyond the pool deck. The stars are out—so many it feels like they’re leaning in just to get a better look at the mess we’ve made of each other. Elias is curled in my lap, dead asleep, head on my thigh, curls sticking to his forehead from the heat. His mouth is parted, soft with exhaustion, and one hand is loosely fisted against my chest like even in sleep he doesn’t want to let go.
He smells like sun and sweat and me. And I’m not fucking moving.
I run my fingers gently through his hair, watching the way his lashes twitch when I brush too close to his temple. The rest of him is deadweight, totally slack. Wrecked in the best way. I think we broke three hammocks, got two spa warnings, and possibly traumatized a bartender. And still, somehow, he’s here. Knocked out like a stray kitten who thinks my lap is home.
He’s always done that.
The first night I brought him home when he fainted at the gym—when he crashed in my bed, mouthy and wounded and desperate to earn every inch of my attention. The first time I snapped at him in practice and he pushed back harder, eyes shining. The first time he called mesirlike it tasted good.
I didn’t believe in forever. Didn’t trust it. Didn’twantit. Never thought I’d live long enough to make it worth the trouble. You don’t survive what I’ve survived by hoping for things. You just take what you can get, when you can get it, and walk away when it stops being worth the damage.
But then this kid showed up—this wild, reckless, mouthy thing with too much speed and not enough caution—and hechoseme. Over and over. Even when I was cold. Even when I was cruel. Even when I pushed and punished and tried to train the want out of him, hechoseme. He didn’t just say forever, hemeantit. And somewhere along the line… I started meaning it too.
I look down at him, and my chest fucking aches with it. With the weight of how much I love this little shit. With the clarity of it—how easy it is to imagine this every night, every morning, every goddamn day for the rest of our lives. How natural it feels. How violent the regret still is for ever thinking I didn’t deserve something this good.
Elias shifts against me, groaning like the concept of waking up is a personal attack. He burrows deeper into my thigh for a second, murmurs something that sounds like a curse and a compliment rolled into one, then lifts his head just enough to squint up at me—eyes bleary, curls smashed sideways like a drunk halo, voice thick with sleep as he huffs, “What are you looking at?”
I smirk. “Your sorry-ass face.”
He blinks once. Twice. Then groans like he’s in pain and flops back down into my lap, grumbling, “You’re the worst husband in the world.”
“I just said your face is sorry, pup. That’s high praise, considering the shit I usually call it.”
His hand smacks my thigh with all the force of a sleepy kitten. “You should be writing me poems.”
“I did. You moaned through the whole thing.”
