Page 11 of Heatstroke

Then his body decided for him.

He stepped forward, knees bending without permission, climbing into the hammock with a roughness that made the ropes groan. It tipped wildly beneath them, unsteady as Daniel's pulse, until Thierry caught him—one hand firm at his hip, anchoring him, stilling him.

"Here," Thierry murmured, voice low, velvet dark. "Stay with me."

Their mouths met again, but where the first kiss had been war, this was surrender. Daniel's fingers tangled in Thierry's hair, dragging him deeper with the same desperate intensity that had driven him to flee hours before. The hammock cradled them, rocking in time with the rain, the rhythm of it primal, inevitable.

Clothes fell away like afterthoughts. The air between them burned. Thierry's hands were everywhere, steady, unhurried, relentless. And Daniel—who had always guarded his body like afortress, who had always been the one to dictate, to control—let him explore.

Gasps replaced words.

Every touch was answered. Every breath met. The hammock creaked beneath them, the sound a counterpoint to the rain, to the thunder rolling low across the horizon like the growl of some ancient beast.

Thierry's mouth moved down Daniel's throat, his sternum, lower—each kiss a brand, a promise, a ruin.

When it came—release, unraveling, the sharp, sweet collapse—it came like drowning in sunlight.

Daniel bit down on Thierry's shoulder to stifle the sound tearing from his throat. Thierry groaned his name, ragged and wrecked, before murmuring something else against his ear, something hot and filthy and devastating?—

"So good for me."

It shattered him.

The next morning, they lay tangled in the hammock, skin damp, breath slow. The rain had softened to a whisper. Daniel woke to birds taking shade from the rain, chirping in what appeared to be hunger.

He stared at the rafters above, his body humming, his chest hollowed out. Still asleep, Thierry's fingers traced were splayed gently on his thigh, possessive even in stillness.

It should have felt right.

It didn't.

The intimacy of it—the effortless, terrifying closeness—suddenly lodged in Daniel's chest like a knife. Something too sharp to keep. His heart pounded, not from pleasure now, but from panic.

He sat up too fast. The hammock lurched.

Thierry murmured something half-asleep, reaching for him, but Daniel was already moving—stumbling out, grabbing his trousers from the floor, yanking them on with hands that shook.

The rain had stopped. Dawn was bleeding into the sky, pale and unforgiving.

He didn't look back.

He opened the door and vanished into the light.

FIVE

EMOTIONAL UNDERCURRENT

The morning air was cool against Daniel's bare arms, the sky a bruise of violet and gold, the kind of dawn that felt like a secret.

He didn't look back. Couldn't. If he turned, if he saw Thierry's face again—sleep-soft, unguarded—he might do something unforgivable. Like stay.

He dressed quickly on the porch, fingers fumbling with buttons, the fabric of his shirt still damp from last night's sweat, last night's rain. The wood beneath his feet was rough, weathered by years of salt and storm, and he stepped carefully, avoiding the warped planks that groaned under pressure. Silence was his only ally now.

Inside, the shack was still dark, the hammock swaying gently, Thierry's breathing deep and even. Daniel hesitated, hand on the doorframe. One glance. That was all. Just one.

Mistake.

Thierry lay tangled in the netting, one arm thrown above his head, the other curled against his chest like he'd reached for Daniel in his sleep and found only absence. His lips were parted, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and for a heartbeat, Daniel couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

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