Page 9 of Heatstroke

He wasn't that man—not anymore.

Except he was already standing. Except he hadn't sat down at all. His body moved before his mind decided. Again. Like ithad on the dock, at the bar, under Thierry's hand. His lips still burned, and no amount of pacing was cooling them.

They ached with memory. Every time he dragged his tongue over the edge of his own teeth, he could still taste Thierry—salt and rain and blood. It made him furious.

He dug his nails into his palms. "This is fucking stupid," he muttered.

He stopped by the window, one hand braced against the frame, the other pressing to the pulse hammering at his neck. Outside, the path that led back toward the water glistened in the lamplight.

Somewhere out there, beyond the palms, was the shack. The surfing shack frequented by those who wanted to learn. Most importantly, it was Thierry's shack. Daniel was familiar with it from the occasional flyer posted randomly. He’d seen it enough times in passing to know the quickest route there.

The quickest route to Thierry. A man who did not coax, did not beg, did not flatter. Thierry did not even flirt. He simply stood in the world like it was built to want him—and worse, it did.

Daniel shut his eyes, exhaled through his nose. His breath came hot, his spine locked tight, the internal debate losing cohesion as something far older took hold of him. Need, that was the simplest word for it. Hunger, maybe. Or the feeling of an absence that had remembered its shape.

He cursed, soft and vicious, then crossed the room in four quick strides.

Keys. Door. Night.

He stepped out before he could change his mind.

The rain was warm now, the sort of tropical downpour that saturated everything without the courtesy of cold. Trees arched overhead, and the path was soft underfoot, mud squelchingbetween his toes. He didn't bother with shoes. He didn't bother with excuses.

He walked fast, head down, breathing hard, the world around him slick and urgent. Lights blinked faintly across the inlet. Far off, a boat creaked in its mooring. The night pulsed with the music of insects, water, and that particular silence that only the tropics could shape—a silence that felt alive.

The shack was as exactly as it was in the flyers—half boat-shed, half dwelling, a weathered structure with its windows open and its interior spilling faint yellow light across the sand. The front was the actual surfing school, and around the back was where Thierry’s residence had been placed.

A single bulb dangled above the entrance, swaying slightly with the wind. The rain thudded on the tin roof above in rhythmic punctuation, a sound that seemed to drive into Daniel's bones.

He didn't knock. He didn’t need to.

Thierry opened the door before Daniel's hand reached it.

For a moment, they said nothing. Thierry stood back slightly, bare-chested, a towel around his waist and damp from the same rain, his locs tied back loosely. His eyes were unreadable in the half-light, but his mouth—Daniel's gaze caught there too long—was parted as if in question.

Daniel's throat felt raw.

Thierry stepped aside. A silent invitation.

Daniel entered.

The air inside was dense with something not quite tangible. Not musk. Not damp. Something more human. The smell of wood oil and skin.

A hammock hung loosely to one side, strung between wall beams, a single bottle of dark rum beside it, half-drunk. Tools lay in orderly chaos along the back wall—ropes, knives, sanded boards, spare rudders. The place was not clean, but it wasarranged in a way that made sense to few. A man lived here. Fully.

The door closed behind them with no ceremony. No lock turned.

Thierry didn't speak.

He simply watched Daniel, gaze slow and sure, until Daniel found he couldn't keep still. The storm outside roared against the shack's roof, and yet it was quieter in here than it had been in Daniel's chest for days.

"Say it," Thierry said at last, voice low.

Daniel frowned. "Say what?"

"Tell me to stop."

It wasn't a dare. It wasn't a game. It was a way out.

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