Page 52 of Heat Clickbait
The ocean breeze carried the salt-sweet scent of him closer, coconut and sea spray mixing with something deeper, more vulnerable than his usual projection.
"She's okay now," he added quickly. "Full remission, coming up on ten years clear. Finishing her doctorate in biochemistry because of course she's a genius on top of everything else."
"You still send money home," I said. It wasn't a question. I'd seen him calculating expenses, noticed how he lived well below what his earnings should allow.
"Family takes care of family." He finally stopped pacing, standing with his back to me, watching the waves. "But somewhere along the way, I became just the hot one. The himbo. The thirst trap guy. And it was easier to lean into that than to constantly explain that I actually have a brain."
I stood, walking to join him at the water's edge. The waves were warm against my feet, the Pacific Ocean in its gentle mood. "You know you're brilliant, right?" I looked at him hoping that he would feel the weight of my gaze and how much I meant what I'd said equally.
He glanced at me, surprise flickering across his features. "I mean, I'm good at what I do?—"
"No, Blitz. You're brilliant. You speak three languages fluently. You've got a business degree you finished while caring for your sister. You understand biomechanics and nutrition at a level that rivals some doctors. You just hide it behind the abs and the dimples."
"The abs and dimples get views," he said, but his voice had gone soft. "Smart doesn't sell the way six-packs do."
"Maybe not. But smart is what made you build that gym attachment to the nest. Smart is what helped you recognize exactly what my body needed during heat. Smart is what makes you more than just a pretty face."
He turned to face me fully, and for once, he wasn't posing. No strategic angles, no conscious display. Just Eli Reyes, vulnerable and real.
"You see me," he said, wonder in his voice.
"We all do. Ghost might not say it, but he respects your technical knowledge about streaming equipment. Nova consults you on business strategies all the time. Milo asks for your nutrition advice. Crash... well, Crash thinks you're a god, but that's just because you can bench press him."
That earned a real laugh, bright and unguarded. "He keeps asking me to do it on stream."
"Of course he does."
We stood there for a moment, feet in the surf, and I realized this was the first time we'd been alone together without the heat-haze of biology driving us. No pack watching, no cameras rolling, no performance needed.
"Want to swim?" he asked suddenly.
"I didn't bring a suit."
His grin turned wicked. "I may have asked Milo to pack you one. It's in the bag. Along with snacks, water, and SPF 50 because your pale aesthetic burns faster than Ghost when someone mentions social interaction."
I laughed, heading back to check the bag. Sure enough, there was a simple black two-piece that was actually my style rather than something chosen for maximum skin exposure.
"Turn around," I ordered.
"We literally spent three days naked together," he protested, but turned anyway, giving me privacy to change.
I sent silent thanks to the universe that the beach was empty as I changed. Once I'd switched into the swimsuit, I found him stripped down to just his board shorts, and dear god, the man was a work of art. Not just the muscles, though those were impressive, but the way he moved with complete comfort in his body, the un-self-conscious joy in his physicality.
"Race you," I said, and took off running before he could respond.
He caught me easily, of course, scooping me up just as the waves hit our knees. I shrieked as he spun us both, dunking us in the ocean with a laugh that echoed across the water.
We played like kids, bodysurfing, splash fights, diving under waves. He taught me to read the currents, showed me how to time the waves for maximum ride. His hands steadied me whenI lost balance, always respectful, never lingering longer than necessary.
"This is what I missed," he said during a lull, both of us floating on our backs, letting the ocean hold us. "Just playing. No metrics, no engagement rates, no perfect form. Just fun."
"When did you stop having fun?"
"When it became my job. When my family's medical bills depended on maintaining my image. When every workout became content instead of joy." He turned his head to look at me, water droplets catching the sunlight on his lashes. "But with the pack, with you, I'm remembering what it feels like to just exist in my body without performing."
A larger wave rolled in, and he pulled me against him to keep us stable. The contact sent heat through me that had nothing to do with the sun, his solid warmth a contrast to the cool ocean.
"I should probably mention," I said against his shoulder, "this is working."
