Again

Economy class lived up to its name—if not in cost, then certainly in its ruthless austerity. The weather was equally frugal, hoarding sunlight like a resource in short supply. The airport had apparently decided to conserve runway space, forcing their plane to circle for nearly an hour. And the passport control officer? He seemed hell-bent on rationing both warmth and basic human facial expression. And yet—none of it, not a single thing—managed to ruin their mood. Aidan’s skin itched a little where the infamous mole had been. The spot looked worse without it, somehow—like an overedited photo with too much contrast. But it didn’t hurt, and it didn’t matter. Not today. They were booked into a three-star hotel, the kind whose online reviews seemed written by people only loosely acquainted with joy. According to the collective wisdom of the internet, one star had been awarded for breakfast, another for location, and the third was anyone’s guess—possibly an accident. But it was cheap, and when you were a photographic genius still waiting for the financial world to catch up with your brilliance, that counted for a lot. The front desk situation was… aspirational. They spent forty minutes in line, trapped behind a nearly-organized tour group that moved like a confused amoeba. Even that didn’t take the edge off Aidan’s buoyant mood. He smiled at everyone, said hello like he was running for local office, and declared to the room at large that it was a truly beautiful day. The room greeted them with aggressively hopeful cleanliness, furniture so battered, it looked like it had hosted a summit between Soviet ghosts and drunk backpackers, and a bold interior choice: two twin beds, separated by just enough space to imply modesty—and just little enough to suggest opportunity. Aidan was barely through the door when he declared, “Window side’s mine!” He hurled his backpack onto the apparently more luxurious bed with unearned confidence and the kind of precision that suggested he had once fought over the last sunlit patch on a hostel bunk. “Huh,” came from behind him. “Weird how the ‘queen bed’ magically split in two.” “You’ve gotta see it from their perspective. Two guys. Different last names. I wouldn’t jump to conclusions either. Well?” he said. “Drop your stuff—we’re going out.” “Rest for a couple hours?” “No.” “Thirty minutes?” “No!” ”…Shower?” He sniffed his armpit. Nodded. “Passable.” “Shouldn’t we at least figure out where we’re going?” “Absolutely not. We’re trusting fate. We’ll wander until we find food—or die trying.” “Incredible strategy.” “I know! I’m very proud.” The sun was already beginning to sink, casting everything—people, buildings, trees, parked bikes—in a warm, honeyed glow that made even cracked pavement look kind of poetic. Aidan kept surging ahead with purpose, but every so often he’d stop short, hand twitching toward the ghost of a camera that wasn’t there. Aidan kept surging ahead with purpose, but every so often he’d stop short, hand twitching toward the ghost of a camera that wasn’t there. Then he’d physically shake it off and keep moving. “We’ve got nine days,” he said, mostly to himself. “I’ll shoot it all. Every damn inch.” Around them, the city had shifted into its post-work, post-tour mode: restaurants, bars, and beer halls were packed to the brim. From half-open windows—many of them at street level or slightly below it—came bursts of conversation, laughter, and, in some cases, full-on group singing. But some people clung to the fading light like it was the last warm thing they’d ever know. They wrapped themselves in blankets, cradled oversized mugs, and leaned over food so rich it practically steamed with comfort. Some sat on terraces, others at tables spilled onto sidewalks and plazas. They only found free seats in what technically could be described as an alley—though the cardboard sign by the iron gate, scrawled with “Peklo”, suggested there was a real business back there. Probably. Hopefully. Blissfully unaware of what exactly that bold bit of creative naming translated to, they ducked under the archway and found a table indoors—choosing not to layer the evening chill on top of their already creeping jetlag.The interior was aggressively simple, like someone had decorated using only furniture that came free with other furniture. It didn’t seem to affect business, though. The place was buzzing. Loud. Largely local. And very much not designed for tourists. Only a few people seemed to speak English. The waiter appeared, heard them speak something not remotely Czech, and silently took the menus away. He was gone just long enough for them to wonder if they’d broken protocol, then reappeared with a single sheet of paper—an unofficial English menu, slightly crumpled and possibly photocopied in 1998. After confirming that yes, they clearly wanted their beerbig, he tapped the black-and-white list with his pen and began offering translations. “Fast,” he said, pointing. “Slow,” at another. Then: “Meat.” Then: “Much meat.” He paused. Made eye contact. Then pointed again, slowly. “XL… slow… meat.” Aidan blinked. “Well, obviously that one,” he said. “No question.” The waiter nodded, entirely serious. “I come… slowly,” he added, and walked off without writing anything down. There was a pause. “…What do you think we just ordered?” “I don’t know,” Aidan said. “But if it arrives with a safe word, I’m tipping extra.” Drinks arrived—twice—before the food did. “This system feels dangerously unreliable,” Aidan said, nodding toward the paper strip where the waiter had drawn a line for each beer delivered. “Like, what if some shady guest just shows up with a fake strip, tight budget, and their own idea of how many lines should be there?” “I think it probably balances out with all the times the waiter’s hand slips and accidentally adds a couple extra lines—especially when the tourists are blissed out, half-drunk, and surrounded by six friends who are too polite to argue.” “Oh noooo! How awful!” Aidan gasped, not looking even slightly concerned. “But us? We can’t be fooled.” “Obviously not. We can count to three. You do think we’re stopping at three, right?” “Think? Wait, should we?” “Oh my God, Moore, you need foodnow. You’re getting loopy.” “Not true! You want to test my mental clarity with a tongue twister? Watch this: Which witch is which, which witch is a wicked bitch?” “That’s not how it goes.” “I enhanced it.” “Do the sea shells one.” “Pfffft. Child’s play. She shells seasells by the seasore.” “Almost.” “You weren’t listening closely. One more time—oh! Food!” The local food, on the one hand, saved them from total loss of speech. On the other, it made them incredibly sleepy. Aidan glanced around the room through increasingly lazy eyelids and mumbled, “Look how many people here have dogs. I don’t think we’re allowed to do that back home.” “You should try showing up somewhere with Ewan.” “He wouldn’t get it. He’d act personally offended and make sure everyone around us knew it. I’m almost certain he’s not just a sociopath, but a full-on misanthrope. And who did he get that from? I like people. I like all these people. I even like this monosyllabic waiter. …Even you.” “Thank you, I’m truly honored by the ‘even.’” “I don’t believe you’re offended.” Aidan kicked him lightly under the table. “Because I’m not.” “Let’s walk around the city all night!” “How about… let’s not? I still need to install some kind of currency converter in my brain before I can understand how much we’re spending.” “Or… hear me out… we don’t do that. And we just relax.” “Terrible idea. I’m in.” “You’re the best!” “You’re… honestly not bad. We going?” They walked back to the hotel, even though it took an hour—and even longer once they veered off course to reach Charles Bridge. The wind off the Vltava wasn’t as cutting as it could’ve been, which made it easy to stop for a while when they found a patch of stone railing blessedly free of tourists. In the dark blue water, lanterns and the lights from passing riverboats shimmered and blurre.; on the bridge, street musicians played something classical, maybe Vivaldi. The swans near the Kafka museum honked from the shadows, like old women yelling at teenagers to go home. If not for the kind of exhaustion that settles like fog, thick and absolute, they could’ve stayed like that forever—or at least another hour—standing close, arms wrapped around each other for warmth. After a day so overloaded with impressions it practically left bruises, the hotel deserved at least seven stars. For the silence. The heat. And a halfway decent pillow. Aidan had long since abandoned the idea of wandering all night. He nearly fell asleep any time they stopped moving, leaning into his travel companion like a structurally unsound lamp. One of the most committed efforts happened by the elevator, which kept cycling endlessly between floors like it was taunting them, never quite reaching the lobby. “Babe, we’re almost in the room,” came the tired voice beside him. “If I pass out, just carry me,” Aidan muttered. “I’ve got the same chance of carrying you as you’ve got of carrying me.” “…I don’t understand what you just said.” “Nothing important.” “Okay. Will you shove me into the shower? Just check the water first.” “You’ll manage.” “You call that friendship?” “Best friendship.” “Oh. Right.” Somehow, everything got done. The man in the prime window bed was still awake when the second half of their miniature tourist group finally collapsed onto the other mattress. Aidan reached out his hand. “Hold mine.” “It’s gonna be awkward to sleep like that.” “Just for a little.” A pause. “Okay. Sure.” “Thanks.” “Good night, Aidan.” “Good night, Blake.”

***

“How are you feeling?” Blake asked the next morning as they made their way down to breakfast. “Stunning.” Aidan picked up a cup, frowned, then picked up another. “These cups are confusing. You can get something like an Americano here, but the cups are too small for that. But too large for an espresso. And the stuff is weirdly watery.” “Thorough answer. Did you text Noah?” “Did you?” “Aidan.” “I wrote him from the airport. He knows we landed and didn’t get stranded in Chicago due to tragic weather. And now, time zones—no need to bother him.” “It’s only, like, ten p.m. for him.” “Ten at night,” Aidan stressed. “Let the man rest. Why are you harassing him? Anyway. WiFi cut out twice but I found the bus station and screenshotted the schedule. Cooper, we’re going to Dresden.” “We haven’t even seen Prague properly yet!” “We will. We have to maintain sensory sharpness.” “We could rent a car.” “Are you kidding? I’m sure they frown on drunk driving here.” “We’re sober.” “For now.” “You sure you should be drinking at all?” “Babe, I think I’m healed. It doesn’t feel like they sliced off a mole and burned it—it feels like they lifted a mountain off my chest. You’re gonna have to hold me down or I’ll float away.” “Yeah. No, sure. Totally normal. That doesn’t scare me at all.” “And it shouldn’t. Chew faster—we’ve got a bus in forty minutes.” “Oh, I can tell this is going to be the most relaxing vacation,” Blake sighed.

***

At the Zwinger, they headed straight for the Old Masters Gallery, and after a catastrophically short two hours inside, made their way to one of the most vital parts of any museum: the gift shop. “This place clearly isn’t targeting us,” Aidan sighed, scanning the shelves—filled not only with art prints but also umbrellas, mousepads, and eyeglass cases ready to receive your disposable income and misguided affection. “Oh, come on. Look at this gorgeous pencil,” Blake said reverently, placing a hand over his heart. He pointed to a ‘Chocolate Girl’ gift set: notebook and crowned pencil, plus—because why not—a fridge magnet and a towel for polishing wine glasses. “I think I figured out the logic. You polish the glass, pour some brandy—or whatever fuels your genius—open the notebook, jot down your profound thoughts, tear out the page, and stick it on the fridge with the magnet for public admiration.” “Oooh, Cooper! Are you always this brilliant?” Aidan raised an eyebrow. “You were probably that kid who failed IQ tests because you refused to eliminate the ‘odd one out.’ Like, sure—peas, a saw, a hammer, and a screwdriver are clearly a set because…?” “They all go in the same drawer?” “First of all, no. Stupid. Second: they’re all potential murder weapons.” “Your gift for pattern recognition is truly inspiring.” “Your jawline is truly inspiring,” Aidan said, now turning a very beaker-shaped glass over in his hands. “…What?” “What, we’re not trading compliments?” “…O-kay.” “Anyway, let’s come back here when I’m ninety. I’ll definitely be ready to buy an eyeglass case, a silk scarf with vaguely Indian motifs, a ring with a fake emerald, a pearl set with matching earrings, and a cane with an ivory knob.” “They don’t even sell canes.” “They’ve got sixty years to start. I’ll leave a suggestion in the guestbook. Maybe even draw a sketch.” “Please don’t draw a sketch.” “You’re being dramatic. It’s not like it’s going to be overtly phallic.” “It’s absolutely going to be overtly phallic.” “Okay, fine. You’re right. But you have to understand—where else am I going to find a solid phallus I can still grip in my hand at ninety?” “I love how far into the future you’re planning.” “Yeah, well, at this point there’s only a fifty-fifty chance you’ll inherit my jacket and my tie after all.” “I’ll survive.”

***

“…That’s so hot,” Aidan whispered—literally whispered, like he hadn’t breathed properly for five minutes. “Yeah? Oh. Yeah.” “I can’t even imagine what the temperature must be at the focal point of that beam… I’m guessing: ungodly.” “Fifteen hundred degrees Celsius, whatever that means,” Blake said, checking the placard. “Is that… a lot? Like, two hundred Fahrenheit?” “More like twenty-seven hundred.” Aidan laced his hands behind his back, clearly trying to stop himself from accidentally groping the dual-lens focusing apparatus. “If we had one of these at home, we’d drop everything and spend our days just… setting stuff on fire. And at some point, probably my hand.” “Don’t worry,” Blake said, nodding toward the sample materials on display nearby. “Looks like the guy who built this thing was exactly the same. Started with metal. Moved to stone. Pretty sure his hand was in there too—just didn’t make it to modern times.” “I get him. I really do.” Aidan leaned closer, eyes glowing. “You think I could build one at home? I mean, assuming I don’t get arrested. Where do you evengeta lens that’s a foot and a half across?” They were deep in the Physics and Mathematics Salon—where both of them kept lingering, long past any reasonable schedule. It was becoming increasingly clear they were never going to see the rest of the Zwinger. “Babe, it’s four already,” Blake said gently. “Didn’t you want to see the sculpture wing?” “Shit,” Aidan groaned, forcing himself to look away from a six-hundred-year-old globe that, frankly, had every right to be missing entire continents and depicting sea monsters with a straight face. “That was the whole point of this trip!” “Really? You hid that extremely well.” “How could you not know? What’s more important to my work—classical human form or centuries-old telescopes?” “Tough call. Sounds like a trick question.” “You’re a trick question. With unrealistically beautiful eyes.” “Uh… thank you?” “Let’s go! We’ll at least catch some bronze—maybe a glance at marble on the way. Are you hearing me?” Aidan waved a hand in front of his face. “Your eyes are still beautiful, but right now they’re giving mezerobrain activity. Everything okay in there?” “Mmm? Yeah. Bronze. That way.” In the sculpture gallery, Aidan looked noticeably more focused. Regretfully skimming past goddesses and wildlife, he took his time with solo and duo male figures—occasionally snapping photos, always serious. After an hour, he stepped back, triumphant. “Done. I’ve got it. Next project: recreating antique sculptures using modern models. But with a twist—urban interiors. Like, office break rooms. Parking garages. Public transport at night. Might need to finesse that permit situation though.” “So… you’re planning this for five a.m.?” “Five a.m. becomes eight a.m. real fast. It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.” Aidan pointed toward a statue with enthusiasm. “Did you notice how inclusive these sculptors were?” “Inclusive how?” Blake asked. “I mean, clearly some of these sculpted guys had… mental health issues. Like that dude with the snake.” “No!” Aidan burst out. “Penises!” The word bounced off the marble walls and echoed through the room with universal clarity, drawing curious glances from international patrons. Aidan didn’t flinch. He was simply discussing visual art in its most tangible form. Blake, slightly less composed, tried to keep his voice down. “What about them?” “Well, some are missing—thanks to time or someone’s delicate sensibilities—but the rest?” Aidan gestured to a statue that had somehow lost its head and most of its arms but retained one extremely preserved feature. “Can you imagine me shooting a model with that? I’d need the giant magnifying glass from the optics wing just to find it. And someone commissioned this! There was a market for these guys!” “Clear moral decline. And discrimination based on something you can’t control. Also—phallic inflation.” “Right? What if I recreate these exactly as they are? Would I even find models like that? Or are they tossed off a cliff in infancy? No, you know what—I’ll be known as the defender of the compact phallus! You do realize what this will lead to?” “Restoring dignity to an underrepresented group?” “No. Everyone thinking I’m doing it for myself,” Aidan sighed, the future patron saint of micro-representation. “Come on. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” “Huh.” Aidan narrowed his eyes. “You say that like you have absolutely no mental image of my dick.” “Oh god. Idon’t. I really don’t.” “Wait—seriously? After all these years? How did that happen?” “No idea. Maybe because that’s a completely normal boundary?” “Ha! You forgot you once sent a dick pic to the group chat.” “I deleted it immediately!” “And I saw it even more immediately.” Aidan raised an eyebrow. “But no one else did. Except Kate.” “…Kate?” “We locked eyes across the room. Instant understanding. Then we ran into the kitchen—just a little jumpy, barely containing squeals—and debriefed. Don’t be embarrassed, we were very discreet about it. I didn’t save the photo though. Sooooo… would you be a dear and send it again? Just to me. You know. Something I wouldn’t mind revisiting now and then.” “Moor, by the end of today, will there be any part of my body you haven’t complimented?” “Nope.” Aidan beamed. “I’ve got plans for all of it. Now come on. Let’s go see how German beer holds up against the Czech stuff.” “Yeah. I’m gonna need that.” On the bus ride back, Aidan drifted into half-sleep almost immediately, slumping against Blake, who’d taken the window seat. Blake shifted slightly, adjusting to be a more comfortable lounge chair, and wrapped both arms around him—purely for the purpose of preventing a sleepy tourist from collapsing into the aisle. The ride took just under two hours. For the first half, Aidan simply dozed, while his brain scrolled through the day’s images: the skeletonized mechanism of the astronomical clock… a black deer sculpture… Blake’s profile silhouetted against the Crown Gate… a marine chronometer… Ganymede, clearly displeased with his current eagle situation… a telescope so gilded it probably made all modern ones feel inadequate… It all blurred together—reassuring and warm—alongside the gentle rocking of the bus, the soft breath near the back of his neck, and a hand slowly, cautiously tracing over his stomach. Not the whole hand—just one finger, slipped beneath the hem of his t-shirt, drawing soft, uncertain lines from his navel to his side and back again. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to spook it. Didn’t want it to stop. But why, really… should it stop? Aidan opened his eyes, slipped an arm around Blake’s neck, and kissed him—quick, sure, not asking. When Blake’s hand started to pull back, Aidan caught it with his own, held it there, and said—casually, like it was any other part of the day— “Wanna skip the restaurant? Just grab something on the way from the station?” “…Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Cooper looked momentarily stunned, but he didn’t pull away. Just held Aidan closer.

***

“Let’s just message everyone we’re supposed to, so we don’t have to think about it later,” Blake said as they got back to their room. “We don’t owe anyone anything.” Blake sighed and shook his head. “Sometimes I honestly don’t know what I see in you. You’d be so much more likable if you stopped pretending to be this heartless.” “Fine! But I never promised anyone I’d text or call every day. Did you make that promise?” “Believe it or not, yes.” “To who?” “I have friends, Aidan. Actual friends. Besides you and Katie.” “Do you really? And who might they be?” “You don’t know them.” Aidan squinted, firing off a message at lightning speed. “Will you introduce me?” “When we’re back.” “Perfect. I’m done!” “I’m not. Set the table.” “Why me?” “It’s your turn.” “When was that established?” Blake glanced up, and Aidan immediately folded. “I’m not arguing,” he said, hands raised. Two minutes later: “All set!” “If you’re starving, eat. I need another fifteen,” Blake said, eyes still locked on his screen. Aidan barely managed to stop himself from asking whether Blake needed an hour. A day. All the time in the world. Instead, he cracked open a beer and started looking up ideas for tomorrow. They hadn’t made much of a plan before the trip—both of them working up to the last minute, both agreeing that Prague wasn’t the kind of place where you had to hunt for entertainment in obscure forums and secret threads. At this point, every pin on the map looked promising. By the time he was a third into the bottle, his head was already spinning—not from the porter, but from the endlessly multiplying list of options. He couldn’t focus. Nothing was sticking. His eyes kept drifting to Cooper, who still hadn’t taken off his sweater and was sitting cross-legged on the bed, texting someone. Smiling. Mysteriously. That smile had no business being that cryptic. Finally—after what felt like geological time—Blake tossed his phone onto the nightstand and said: “So? How’s the Czech pad—” The-thai part was swallowed by the sudden presence of another tongue in his mouth. “Whoa,” he whispered once breathing was an option again. “That was… unexpected.” “Nothing unexpected about it.” “Pretty sure I tasted your beer. Dark?” “Porter.” “Not one to start small, huh?” “I like you.” “Good. Kissing someone out of spite would’ve been a weird choice.” “Oh, Cooper,” Aidan murmured. “You know so little about life.” “God, I’m starving.” “Alright,” Aidan said, standing up and holding out a hand. Blake reached for it—tried to steady him—but clearly hadn’t recovered enough coordination, and they both dropped back onto the bed. Kissing again. This time very much horizontally. Now officially off-schedule. The beginning of dinner passed in silence. Not quite awkward—but getting there. Cooper kept setting his bottle down like he was about to say something, sitting up straighter like he’d decided to just go for it—then backing off, rubbing the bridge of his nose, giving Aidan a sheepish half-smile. Eventually, Aidan broke. “So… am I just completely unattractive to you?” Cooper blinked. “That’s a ridiculous question.” “Exactly! I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes—and that is not a friend look.” “You should look at yourself sometime.” “I know exactly what I’ve done. We almost kissed at Katie’s birthday.” “Yeah. That was dangerously close,” Cooper agreed. “And you put your hand in my back pocket when we danced at High Noon last summer.” “Oh my god. Why do you remember this stuff?” “No idea-aaa-aaa…” “Then let me remind you that you practically jumped me a week and a half ago the second Caitlin left us alone.” “I’m not denying it.” “You were denying it. At the time.” “I was in a weird place.” “Unlike now?” “Mhm.” “You’re married.” “…Wow. Timely.” “Someone had to say it.” “Well. We said it. Great. That it?” “You’re seriously scaring me.” “Cooper, listen to me,” Aidan said, pushing aside the flimsy little table between them. He scooted his chair closer (yes, the hotel was cheap enough that there weren’t even armchairs), and took Blake’s hands in his. “You’re overthinking. We’re in this amazing place. It’s not too expensive. My eyes are in constant awe of everything around me—including you. I feel good. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in ages. Everything’s great! But it could be even better. I think we work. And I think there’s real potential here—for fantastic sex.” “Not guaranteed.” “Then let’s find out.” “Uhh…” “It’s just another part of the trip! Why complicate it?” “I don’t buy that it’s actually that simple.” “You’ll see. It’ll be exactly that simple. Easy. Natural. Effortless. That’s our slogan now.” He paused. Yawned. “Okay. Shower time. You clean up the table.” When he came out of the bathroom, Aidan couldn’t help but notice the room had been rearranged. The nightstand that used to separate the two beds was now over by the wall, and the beds themselves had been pushed together. “Oh. You work fast.” “Wasn’t hard,” Blake said, glancing up—and raising an eyebrow at Aidan’s unusually layered sleepwear: boxers and a t-shirt. “You cold? Want me to turn the heat on?” “No, I just… didn’t want to make you look at the gross crater where the laser hit.” “I doubt it’s as horrific as you’re making it sound.” “Don’t argue. I might still be dying.” “Ah, right. What was I thinking.” Blake smirked. “Take the window side.” When he came back, he was dressed exactly like Aidan. “Dress code applies to everyone,” he said, climbing under the blanket and flicking off the lamp. “Babe. Good night.” “What are you talking about? What happened to wall-shaking sex?” “First of all, thankfully I don’t know any wall-shaking techniques. And second—you’re already asleep.” “I’m not,” Aidan protested, wrapping an arm around him from behind and kissing his back through the shirt. “I’ve got so much leftover energy…” He yawned again. “I could have sex all night.” “I couldn’t.” Blake kissed his hand. “Don’t rush it.” “Can I touch you?” “You already are.” “No, I mean, this is a very chaste embrace. So?” “You can.” “I’m gonna start right now.” “Go wild.” There was no reply.

***

By day five, the city hadn’t stopped amazing them—but the small mysteries and rookie mistakes of traveling had mostly faded. They’d mastered the art of making it to their destination before their transit tickets expired. They showed up at restaurants before the kitchens closed. They knew which ticket windows to avoid, how to thank people politely and decline equally politely when invited to men’s bathhouses—or, more shockingly, when offered the company of glamorous local women, allegedly eager to give a distracted tourist a night to remember. Their movements around the city had no real logic. One morning they might head out at dawn to visit a barely-known cemetery on the edge of town, walking among weathered gravestones while trying not to look too cheerful. The next, they might find themselves climbing back up to Prague Castle for the third time—because that placeneverdisappointed. In sunlight, in fog, in the kind of rain that made it majestic, or in rare flurries of snow that made it downright mythical. You could never quite predict where they’d end up. Some days it was Vyšehrad, where Aidan would stare down at the Vltava from the fortress walls and announce loudly, “Tell me you see it! That stretch right there—it’s basically just transplanted Copenhagen!” Blake’s protest—that he’d never been to Copenhagen, and therefore couldn’t possibly confirm or deny its alleged presence in Prague—was summarily ignored. Other days they went as far as Brno. Why? Because it was the next train out. And the ticket agent had assured them there was something to see. Each other’s company turned out to be more than enough—though apparently, that hadn’t been the plan at first. Aidan had asked, “Did you bring anything with you?” and a casual inventory of their respective supplies had revealed… other options. Everything was great—except for the WiFi. In a truly heroic act of consistency, it stopped working in their room almost every evening. They’d stopped being offended and just headed downstairs, where the signal was stronger and expectations lower. If they got lucky, they even snagged one of the more comfortable lobby couches. Blake, ever the civilized adult, sat properly. Aidan, being Aidan, slowly slid into “horizontal with commentary” mode—occasionally remarking on how Blake’s jawline looked from this angle, or asking him to lean in to whisper dramatically somethinghighly confidential, only half the time delivering anything useful. Sometimes it was, “Just FYI, you have a phenomenal ass. Never forget that.” Other times: “No one would notice if I slid my hand into your pants right now, right?” Usually, it was just an excuse to steal a kiss. Tonight, though, Aidan was extra twitchy. Fidgeting. Sighing. Tapping his phone against his forehead like he was trying to knock an idea loose. Blake glanced over. “You want to go back to the room if you’re not doing anything? You’re kind of… distracting.” “Yeah, I was just thinking that. But first—I found your profile.” Blake froze. “How? There’s no last name.” “I just tapped every tag that turns me on and checked who was zero feet away. Genius, right?” Aidan grinned. “Why are you looking so horrified? There’s nothing scandalous. Your photos are almost tasteful. And you don’t demand anyone suck your thumb or be vegan.” “Yeah, no. Super boring that way.” “And you’re vers,” Aidan added without missing a beat. “That’s just marketing. Don’t get too excited.” “I figured. Same here.” “So… what was the point of this whole investigation?” “Just trying to get to know you better.” “You could’ve asked me.” “You were busy,” Aidan waved him off. “And anyway, I was trying to casually steer the conversation toward the fact that I’m hoping for sex tonight.” “Shocking. It’s not like you’ve already been hoping for it every morning and evening.” “No, I mean sex-sex.” “Oh. That’s a terrible idea.” “You always say that. And then admit I was right.” “Except for yesterday.” “That doesn’t count! I genuinely thought you’d be one of the quiet ones. Oh come on! Nobody would’ve noticed anything!” “What are you talking about? They stopped us on the way to the fitting room.” “Exactly! I call it discrimination. What if you just needed help with a zipper?” “Maybe next time we should at least pretend to be trying things on. Might look less suspicious.” “Genius! We’ll do that.” “Oh no. There is no next time. I’m not coming home with a Czech arrest record.” “Well, fine. Since you’re being such a killjoy… How about our cozy little hotel room and that bed that almost doesn’t separate if you lie perfectly still in the middle?” “Yeah, sure, but… are you sure we should? I mean, I’m good the way it is now. Really.” “I’m fantastic! I even forgot for a whole minute yesterday why I kind of hate 69.” “You remembered real fast.” “Of course I did. It’s the dumbest multitask ever invented. But even with all that…it kind of feels like something’s missing when you don’t—” “No specifics,” Blake cut in, clamping a hand over his mouth. “Okay,” Aidan replied, licking his palm. “I’m even willing to handle all the logistics. Which, given the setup in this place and how much fiber we’re not getting, is gonna be a bitch.” “Such sacrifice.” “The things I do…for an evening of tender lovemaking,” he added quickly, dodging another hand to the face and springing to his feet. “Wait for the signal. Don’t come up early unless youwantto hear a lot of swearing and, at some point, probably: ‘To hell with it! ’ And no—no more trying to talk me out of this!” He winked, already headed for the elevator. The light from the window—curtains thrown open—was enough. Enough to see each other in a soft, washed-out monochrome. Enough to find, with startling accuracy, the places where skin grew thin and nerves lived close to the surface. The tongue knew exactly where to go. Fingers moved in response, reaching out almost in disbelief—not quite trusting the reality of the other body. But the contact came back immediately, rebounding through him, unmistakably real, impossibly amplified. It wasn’t that it felt unreal. It just didn’t feel possible. No one needed words. The sensation alone was enough—immediate, unmistakable, uncompromising. A single, certain path. Straight toward something they might’ve been moving toward their whole lives. Aidan had long since stopped wondering why a kiss on the shoulder or a hand tightening around his wrist could shake him to the core. It just did. And he’d learned to accept that. Coming up for air after a kiss that had started at his lips, made a full pilgrimage across his body, and returned to its origin, he exhaled: “Only face to face.” “Yeah,” Blake whispered. “If you’re sure…” “I’m sure. So sure.” “Okay. Me too.” The surge of heat and pressure nearly dissolved into the tangle of tongues. Aidan thought he might’ve bitten Blake’s lip. Or maybe his own. Hard to say. Didn’t matter. He wrapped his arms around the shoulders above him andlet go.Reality slipped away without resistance. This—whatever this was—felt like something that had never happened before, but also like something he’d always known was coming. Like he’d known the exact second it would hit—right as his head slammed into the headboard and he started laughing like an idiot. And Blake wouldn’t think it was weird. He’d laugh too, shaking with it, kissing every inch of his face, sweat-damp hair, bracing himself against the mattress just to shift downward, and building a fortress of pillows—they definitely needed some concussion prevention. And then—like a current pulling them sideways—it would all tilt into something quieter. Something sharp and aching. Their eyes would meet, and that single look would arch Aidan up to meet him again. And then he’d be on top, holding on, trying to breathe without sobbing, tracing the rise and fall of Blake’s chest and stomach, moving slowly, inevitably, toward the bright, lightning-lit edge of it all. And when he got there—when it crashed through him and he locked around a just-as-shattered Blake—two very clear thoughts managed to break the surface: One: he’d just come within a millisecond of saying three words that would’ve likely immediately breached the “casual vacation sex” agreement. Two: neither of them had remembered the condoms. Which were…at arm’s reach. And currently catching the light. Judging him.