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The morning light filters through the kitchen curtains daintily, catching the dust that dances in the air. You wrap both hands around your coffee mug, savoring the warmth against your palms as you watch Clark move through the kitchen with that easy grace he's always had. The kind that seems impossible for a man his size.

He's already dressed for the day's work: worn jeans that sit perfectly on his hips, boots laced tight, a flannel shirt still unbuttoned and hanging open. The fabric frames the broad expanse of his chest, and you find yourself staring over the rim of your mug, shamelessly oogling your husband. A year in Kansas still hasn't dulled the effect he has on you. You're not sure anything ever could.

If anything, it's gotten worse.

"I can feel those pretty eyes on me darlin'," he says without looking up, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You grin, lifting your mug to your lips. "Can you blame me?"

He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and your heart does that stupid dance it's been doing since the day you met him.

"Not even a little bit, sweet thing."

The farmhouse kitchen is small, nothing at all like the sleek apartment you had in Metropolis. The checkered curtains you picked out together hang just above the kitchen window. Mismatched mugs collected from various roadside stops dangle from hooks just above the sink. The only thing in here that looks out of place might be the coffee maker, but even that is the older model the two of you thrifted when you were still sharing the flat in the city.

It's perfect.

Clark crosses to you, and suddenly the kitchen feels even smaller. He braces one hand on the counter beside you, the other coming up to cup your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone as he leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss.

"Good morning, Y/N," he murmurs against your mouth.

"Mmm g'morning Clarkie," you whisper back, your free hand finding the open edges of his shirt, fingers splaying against warm skin and solid muscle of his torso.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel him smile when you make a small sound of protest as he pulls away.

"I have to get out to the field," he says, though he doesn't move, still caging you against the counter. "Those fence posts won't repair themselves, y'know."

You shake your head slowly, gazing up at him doe-eyed. "They could wait one more day..."

"They could," he agrees, dipping his head to press a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your jaw. "But then I'd have to explain to my wife why I'm falling behind on my work."

You grin, leaning up onto your tiptoes and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I think she'd understand."

His laugh is low and warm, rumbling through his chest where you're still touching him.

"I'll be back for lunch."

One more kiss, this one to your forehead. "Are you going to try to get some work done in the garden today?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes at him. "I always get work done, dear."

"Sweetheart," he says, pulling back to look at you with those impossibly blue eyes. "Yesterday, you planted the same row of tomatoes twice because you were... distracted."

Heat floods your cheeks.

"That's not... I was just... I planted those on purpose!"

But he's already grinning, that devastating smile that made you fall in love with him in the first place, and you know there's no point in denying it.

He shrugs out of the flannel, hanging it on the back of a chair, and heads for the door in just his jeans, t-shirt, and boots. You watch him go, already anticipating the view you'll have from the garden.

"Clark?"

He pauses in the doorway, looking back.

"I love you."

His expression softens at that. "I love you too. More than anything."

Then he's gone, the screen door creaking shut behind him, and you're left alone with your coffee and the absolute certainty that leaving Metropolis was the best decision you ever made.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

By mid-morning, you're kneeling in the garden with dirt on your knees and absolutely nothing to show for the last hour of work.

The cucumber plants sit in their containers, waiting to be transplanted. The weeds you meant to pull still lie untouched in the herb bed. Your gardening gloves lie abandoned beside the flower basket you haven't touched in twenty minutes.

Because Clark is in the field.

And... Clark is shirtless.

The sun beats down on his broad back, turning his skin golden, highlighting every shift and flex of muscle as he works. He's pulling at the white fence posts, hammering new ones into the hard fenceline with a heavy hammer, and you've, somehow, completely forgotten what you came out here to do.

Sweat gleams on his shoulders, trailing down the valley of his spine. His jeans sit low on his hips, and when he raises the hammer over his shoulder, his entire body flexes; biceps bunching, abs contracting, thighs braced wide for leverage. The impact echoes across the field, a rhythmic percussion that matches the sudden quickening of your pulse.

You should look away, you really need to. You should focus on the garden, on the work that actually needs doing.

Instead, you watch him drag his forearm across his forehead, watch the way his chest heaves with exertion, watch sunlight catch on the dark hair scattered across his chest. Even from this distance, you can see the definition of every muscle, the strength in every movement.

He bends to position another post, and your mouth goes dry.

A year ago, you watched him save the world in a cape and suit. Now you watch him build fences in worn denim, and somehow this feels more intimate. This is Clark without the weight of the entire world on his shoulders -- this is just a man working his land, building something with his hands, living the life he chose.

The life he chose with you.

You squirm where you're seated in the garden.

He straightens, rolling his shoulders, and even though he's too far away to see clearly, you swear he's smiling. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you. Like he's enjoying it.

Your fingers dig into the soil, trying to reorient your mind, but your eyes never really leave him...

Three more hours until lunch.

It's going to be the longest three hours of your life.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

When Clark finally comes through the back door, he's covered in dust and sweat, his skin sun kissed and gleaming. You're at the counter slicing tomatoes for sandwiches, but the knife stills in your hand the moment you see him.

"Hey," he says, voice rough from the heat and exertion.

You force yourself to swallow. "Hey yourself."

He moves to the sink, turning on the faucet and ducking his head under the stream. Water cascades over his hair, his neck, running in rivulets down the planes of his back. He straightens, running both hands through his wet hair, slicking it back, and when he reaches for the dish towel you're already there, pressing it into his hands.

Your fingers brush his, and in that moment, he stills.

Clark's eyes darken as he looks down at you, the towel forgotten. Water drips from his jaw onto his chest, trailing paths you want to follow with your tongue.

"Lunch is almost ready," you manage, but your voice comes out breathier than intended.

"Is it?" He steps closer, crowding you back against the counter, and suddenly you're surrounded by him. The scent of the wood and his sweat, the heat radiating from his skin, the solid presence of his body barely an inch from yours.

"Clark..." It's meant to be a warning, but it sounds more like an plea.

He braces his hands on either side of you, caging you in, his face so close you can count the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "I've been thinking about you all morning, doll."

Your legs squeeze together beneath your sundress. "H-have you?"

"Every single second." His voice drops lower, growing rougher. "Knowing you were watching me. Knowing what you were thinking."

Your breath catches.

"And... what was I thinking?"

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "The same thing I was thinking."

His mouth trails down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat. "The same thing I'm always thinking when I look at you."

Your hands find his chest, fingers splaying over warm, damp skin. His heart pounds beneath your palm, as rapid as your own.

"You... we, have to go back to work," you whisper, even as you tilt your head to give him better access.

"I know that." He kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "But, we have all the time we need..."

You whimper as his hand finds the small of your back, pressing you against him. "We'll never have enough time."

Clark pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with promise.

"Then I'll just have to make sure tonight lasts twice as long."

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The afternoon stretches endlessly.

You kneel in the garden again, pretending to work, again, but your hands are clumsy and distracted. You've pulled on the same weed three times. The cucumber plants remain untplanted, wilting slightly in their containers while you stare across the field at Clark's distant figure.

The heat is near oppressive now, the sun beating down mercilessly, but it's nothing compared to the heat pooling low in your belly. Every movement he makes seems designed to torment you; the flex of his shoulders, the way his jeans cling to his thigh.

Tonight lasts twice as long.

Holy...

His words echo in your mind, a promise and a threat. You shift on your knees, but your body remembers the press of his against yours in the kitchen, the roughness in his voice, the way his eyes darkened how they do in the bedroom...

You check your watch. Three-fifteen.

Hours still to go.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The sun crawls across the sky with agonizing slowness. You abandon the garden entirely, retreating to the porch with a neglected glass of sweet tea that grows warm in your hand. Clark works on, tireless, and you wonder if he's doing it on purpose. Simply drawing out the anticipation, making you wait, knowing what it does to you.

Four-thirty.

Five o'clock.

The evening breeze does nothing to cool the flush spreading across your chest, your neck. You want his hands on you. His mouth. You want everything he promised and more.

And then, finally... finally... you see him set down his tools and start walking toward the house.

Toward you.

He finds you on the porch, and the sight of him steals your breath. Golden hour light paints him delicious, catching the dust on his skin, the sweat still gleaming on his chest. He's exhausted, but when his eyes meet yours, everything else just, slips away.

"Y/N," he says softly, climbing the steps.

You rise to meet him, and then his arms are around you, pulling you close despite the dirt and sweat. You breathe him in, your hands sliding up his back.

"I missed you today honey," he murmurs into your hair.

You giggle at this. "You were fifty yards away, Clark."

"Mmm too far." He pulls back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

"I love you. Gosh, I love this life with you."

Your heart aches at his words. "Clark-"

He kisses you, slow and deep this time. You lean into him, letting him hold you, breathe you in, have you. He groans as your tongue teases his lips, licking over the bottom one in question. He lets you in immediately, greedily sucking your tongue into your mouth, his fingers digging into your waist as he holds you close.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes have gone nearly indigo.

"Let me shower," he says, his voice thick. "And then I'm keeping my promise."

Your pulse quickens.

"Mhm, Clark... I'll be waiting."

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The water shuts off, and your heart hammers against your ribs. You're already in bed, wearing nothing but the cotton sheet draped loosely across your body. The bedroom window is open, letting in the evening breeze and the sound of crickets, the pale yellow curtains billowing softly in the darkness.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam, and then Clark appearrs, his towel slung low around his hips. Water still beads on his shoulders, his hair damp and tousled. His eyes find you immediately, and the desire in them has you holding back from touching yourself.

"Gah-lee, doll, look at you," he breathes, crossing to the bed.

The towel drops instantly. He's already hard, his cock thick and heavy, and you can't help the small sound that escapes your throat. The year of marriage hasn't scared you off, oh no not in the slightest... honestly, knowing exactly what he can do to you only makes the anticipation that much sweeter.

He climbs onto the bed, prowling over you, and pulls the sheet away with one yank of his wrist. Cool night air hits your bare skin, your nipples tightening instantly, and his gaze rakes over every inch of you with undisguised appreciation.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs, slowly settling between your thighs, his weight pressing you into the mattress. "Thinking about tasting you. Touching you. Making you come so hard you forget your own name, sweetheart."

"Clark," Your voice breaks as his mouth finds your inner thigh, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

"No one can hear you out here," he whispers against your skin. "No neighbors. No one for miles. You can be as loud as you want, Y/N. And I'm going to make you scream."

His mouth moves inward, kissing and biting a path toward your mound, then travelling up your stomach and abdomen, until he reaches your breasts. He takes one nipple between his lips, sucking hard while his hand palms the other, rolling and pinching until you're arching beneath him, fingers tangled in his dark hair.

"Please, Clark," you gasp.

"Please what?" He switches to your other breast, his tongue circling the sensitive peak. "Tell me what you want, honey."

"You. I want you, now."

"You have me." He kisses down your stomach again, his hands spreading your thighs even wider. "Every part of me. Always."

And then his mouth is finally on you, every coherent thought becoming impossible as his head descends between your legs.

His tongue drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, tasting every inch of you. He groans against your pussy, the vibration of his voice making you cry out, your hips bucking against his face. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still as he devours you like a man starved.

"Fuck, Clark-" Your fingers twist in the sheets, your head thrown back as pleasure builds hot in your core.

He circles your clit with his tongue, sucking it between his lips. You nearly come apart right there, squealing at the sensation. He pulls back just as you get close, kissing your inner thigh, making you whimper at the loss of his mouth on you.

"Not yet," he says, his voice rough with desire. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

He moves up your body, aligning himself at your entrance, the head of his thick cock pressing against you. Eyes widening at the perfect sight, you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, preparing yourself for the stretch that was soon to come. Your legs wrap around his waist, urging him closer, but he takes his time, pushing in slowly, inch by torturous inch.

"Gosh you feel incredible," he groans, his forehead pressed to yours. "So tight, Y/N. You're perfect, honey... all mine."

His words are breathy now as he works you open around him slowly, his hands gripping your waist.

"Yours, Clark," you breathe, and he bottoms out with a thrust that makes you both moan.

For a moment, he stays still, buried deep inside you, his eyes locked on yours. The intimacy of it, the connection between the two of you makes your chest blaze with a love so fierce, you never could've imagined it'd feel like this.

Then he starts to move.

His hips roll in a steady rhythm, each thrust deep and purposeful, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as pleasure corses through you.

"Harder," you gasp. "Please, Clark, harder-"

He growls, and his control snaps. His pace becomes punishing, driving into you with a force that would break anyone else. You take it all, your cries echoing off the walls as he fucks you, his gaze watching your breasts bounce beneath him with each thrust.

"That's it," he pants, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other moving to splay beside your head. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

"S-so good... mmmm hmmm, oh fuck, you feel so good Clark, so fucking big-"

He shifts the angle slightly, every thrust ramming his cock damn near through your cervix, the friction and fullness nearly overwhelming. Your orgasm builds quickly, the pleasure coiling impossibly tight in your core.

"Come for me," Clark commands, his voice rough and desperate. "Come around my cock, sweetheart. I want to feel it."

His palm, gently resting against your cheek, moves to your lips, messy and swollen from all the kissing. His thumb slips between the two, and you greedily suck him in, his eyes widening at just how eager you are to take him.

"Should spank your ass for not getting anything done today," he chuckles, and your core clenches hearing the Clark Joseph Kent actually swear. "But you'd probably like that, wouldn't you? Bend you over and spank your cute ass, for staring at me all day, turning me on from the very minute I wake up? Hmm?"

Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, your pussy clenching around him as you scream his name. He fucks you through it, prolonging every pulse of pleasure until you're trembling and gasping beneath him, his hands moving to grip your waist and shove himself deep.

"Yes... mmm so wet for me Y/N, yes-"

He thrusts deep one final time, his cock pulsing as he comes inside you, filling you with heat. His groan is guttural, and he collapses against you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.

For a few moments, no one moves, the only sounds your combined heavy breathing as Clark lies atop you. His weight pins you to the mattress, his face buried in your neck, his cock still buried deep inside you. Your hand drapes limply over his shoulder, feeling his heart pound against your chest.

"I love you," he murmurs finally, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "I love you so much, sweetheart."

You smile tiredly, your fingers grazing the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

"I love you too." You turn your head, catching his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. "I love this life. I love this place. I love everything we've built together, Clark."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and full of devotion. "The best decision I ever made."

You match his gaze. "Leaving Metropolis?"

He smiles softly. "Choosing you."

Your heart flutters as he kisses you again, his lips soft against yours. "Every single day, I choose you."

And today, tomorrow, and every day after, you'd continue to choose him too.

The palm trees sway in the ocean breeze as your group piles out of the shuttle van, laughter and excited chatter filling the air. You've been looking forward to this vacation for months; one whole week at an upscale beach resort with your closest friends from college, a much needed break from the exams, stress and the relentless grind of academic life.

"I cannot believe we're actually here," Violet squeals, linking her arm through yours as you approach the resort entrance. The massive, sprawling buildings are stunning, all white stone and floor-to-ceiling windows that reflect the brilliant blue of the ocean beyond.

You grin, squeezing her arm. "I know. This is going to be perfect!"

Behind you, you hear Garrick's low voice saying something to Xaden, and your smile tightens almost imperceptibly.

Perfect...except for him.

Garrick Tavis, with his infuriating smirk and his constant presence, the way he always seems to know exactly what to say to get under your skin. You've been strategically positioning yourself in the group to avoid him for the entire trip -- sitting between Imogen and Sawyer on the plane, and then between Bodhi and Liam on the shuttle from the airport -- and you plan to continue that strategy for the next seven days.

Thankfully, his best friend (and your best friend's boyfriend) had come along on the trip too -- so in avoiding Xaden, you could avoid Garrick. And Xaden was a hard guy to miss in a crowd.

The lobby was blessedly cool as the group stepped in from the mid-day heat, with it's marbled floors and elegant furnishings. Rhiannon handled the check-in process while the rest of you mill about, the group lingering and looking out at the white sands just beyond the doors. You're carefully examining a piece of abstract art on the wall when you hear your name.

"So, slight issue," Rhiannon says, and something in her tone makes your stomach drop.

You turn. "What... kind, of issue?"

She winces.

"There was a mix-up with the room assignments. The reservation got changed somehow, and instead of you rooming with Violet..."

No. No, no, no.

"...You're with, um... Garrick."

The words land like a stone in still water. You stare at her, waiting for the punchline, but her apologetic expression doesn't change. Behind you, you hear Liam's poorly suppressed snort of laughter.

"You're joking." Your voice comes out flat, brows raised. Violet just looks between the two of you, her expression grimaced.

"I wish I was. I tried to fix it, but they're completely booked. There's some kind of wedding party taking up half the resort." Rhiannon hands you a key card, her eyes sympathetic. "I'm... really sorry."

Violet shakes her head, stepping in.

"Hey, it's no biggie, right? Why don't we just switch -- if you're with Garrick, that would mean I'd now be with Xaden. Why don't we just swap keys, and let the guys room together, and you and I take the other room?"

Rhiannon chews on her bottom lip, gazing down at the marble.

"I thought of that too. I even asked the front desk about it -- they advised that we not do that, since all of our information, meal preferences, rewards, and guest-specific information is loaded onto each room already... and since apparently this information was entered months ago-"

"Now they can't change it." You finished softly, defeated as you accepted your fate.

You take the key card, your fingers clammy. This cannot be happening. A week sharing a room with Garrick Tavis? The universe must be punishing you for something. This was supposed to be a week of relaxation, your time to finally relax before the start of senior year... and now, it was shaping up to be one, massive, headache.

"Well, this should be entertaining," Ridoc says, grinning widely.

"Shut up, Ridoc," you and Rhiannon say in unison, which only makes Ridoc laugh harder.

You risk a glance at Garrick. He's standing with his arms crossed, jaw tight, looking about as thrilled as you feel -- he must've been listening to the entire conversation from the back of the group. His dark eyes meet yours for a brief second before you both look away.

"It's fine," you say, forcing brightness into your voice. "We're adults. We can handle sharing a room for a week."

"Sure," Garrick says, his tone carefully neutral. "It'll be... fine."

Everyone accepts their keys from Rhiannon, the rest of your friends smiling as they receive their roommates of choice. Even Violet can't complain -- she now got to spend the week with her boyfriend, for Christ's sakes.

"C'mon, it'll be just fine," Bodhi said, clapping a hand on your shoulder as the group began to gather their bags once more. Imogen took the lead in herding the group toward the elevators, the conversation around you drowned out as your annoyance grew. "Besides, we won't even be in our rooms very much anyway. Who wants to be in a stuffy hotel room when we got the beach just outside, right?"

Though you knew he was probably right, it would still very much, not, be fine.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The room is nice -- you'll give it that much. An ocean view, tasteful décor, a small balcony with two chairs. And two beds, thank God, though they're closer together than you'd like. You stand in the doorway with your suitcase, taking it all in, while Garrick moves past you to claim the bed farther from the door.

"I'm taking this one," he says, dropping his bag on it.

"M'kay." You wheel your suitcase to the other bed, hyperaware of how small the room suddenly feels with both of you in it.

The silence stretches, awkward and thick. You can feel him behind you as you unzip your suitcase, and you hate how conscious you are of his presence, the way the air seems to shift around him.

You're halfway through hanging your sundresses and beachwear up in the closet when he speaks, breaking the silence.

"Look," Garrick says finally, "let's just... stay out of each other's way, okay? We'll be with the group most of the time anyway."

You glance over your shoulder. He's standing with his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

Turning back to your bag, you fish out one of your bikinis, stringy and vibrant green. "Works for me."

He huffs a short chuckle, shaking his head before turning back to his own bag. "Great."

"Great," you echo, narrowing your brows at him before unzipping your smaller carry-on, reaching for your shower supplies to unpack next.

Another beat of silence, and then he grabs his swim trunks from his bag hastily.

"I'm going to change and head down to the pool."

You roll your eyes.

"You don't have to tell me what you're doing, Garrick -- I'm not your mom," you grumble sassily, finally gathering the last of your bathroom essentials into your arms.

He scoffs again before disappearing into the bathroom, clearly not appreciating your attitude. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding, staring blankly at the shut door for a few moments before your annoyance builds again. Irritated, you empty your armful of items back into your bag, growling as you stomp over to the balcony door and fling it open.

Guess you'll just unpack all that later, then.

The warm ocean breeze hits you immediately as you step out, and you sigh as you lean onto the balcony. Gazing out at the waves gently kissing the shore, your mind begins to regain it's composure once more, the remidner of relaxation, and that you were in the tropics all coming back to you at once.

Seven days. You can survive seven days.

He emerges a few minutes later in just his swim trunks, a towel slung over his shoulder, and you very deliberately keep your eyes cast out on the ocean beyond.

"Y/N."

You turn then, unsure if you've ever heard him use your actual name before. Your heart flutters as you gaze inside the suite, looking squarely at him looking squarely at you.

You absolutely do not notice the way the trunks sit low on his hips, or the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, or the way his dark hair is slightly mussed.

Not. At. All.

"...What?" You say after a beat of silence, trying your best to sound as annoyed as possible with him. Annoyed that someone who looks like that, could be so damn irritating.

His levels you with a stare, before striding for the front door.

"Don't leave the balcony door open if you're just gonna waste time standing out there. The AC is on in here."

Your teeth grate together as he strolls out, the door clicking shut behind him.

This was going to be a very long week.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The first few days pass in a careful dance of avoidance. You stick close to Violet, Rhiannon, and Imogen during the day, claiming lounge chairs by the pool and soaking up the sun. The resort is beautiful, the weather perfect, and you're determined not to let Garrick freaking Tavis ruin this vacation for you.

The problem is, you can't seem to stop being aware of him.

He's always there, on the periphery of your vision; playing volleyball on the beach with Xaden and Bodhi, their shouts and laughter carrying on the breeze. Floating in the pool with a beer in hand while Ridoc tells some outrageous story. Emerging from the ocean with water streaming down his chest, his hair slicked back, his skin golden in the sunlight.

You tell yourself you're not watching him. You're just... aware of where he is. That's all. It's a survival instinct after all, knowing where your enemy is located.

"You're staring," Violet says on the third day, her voice amused.

You jerk your gaze away from where Garrick is standing waist-deep in the pool, talking to Liam. "I am not."

"You totally are." She grins, adjusting her sunglasses. "It's okay. He's objectively hot. Even if he is an asshole to you."

"He's not-" You stop yourself, drawing in and releasing a deep breath. "I wasn't staring."

But you were. And the worst part is, you can't figure out why. You've known Garrick for three years now, and you've spent most of that time trading insults and getting into petty arguments. He drives you crazy. He's arrogant and sarcastic and he always has to have the last word.

So why can't you stop looking at him?

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

That evening, back in the room, you're hyperaware of every sound he makes; the shower running, the rustle of his clothes as he tugs them on, the creak of his bed as he settles in. You lie in your own bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, and try not to think about the fact that he's less than six feet away from you.

"You awake?" His voice cuts through the silence, low and rough.

Your heart jumps. "Yeah."

A pause. "This is weird, right?"

Despite yourself, you almost smile. "Very weird."

"We don't have to be friends or anything," he says. "But maybe we could... I don't know. Call a truce? For the week?"

You consider this. A truce means less energy spent on maintaining your careful hostility. It means you can relax, at least a little. Actually enjoy your time here.

"Okay. Truce." You say, rolling over onto your side.

After a moment, his reply is soft.

"Okay."

You close your eyes, listening to the sound of the ocean through the cracked balcony door (much to Garrick's dismay), and try to ignore the strange flutter in your chest.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

By the fourth day, you've settled into a rhythm. The truce holds -- you and Garrick are civil to each other, even occasionally friendly. You share the bathroom without incident, take turns choosing what to watch on TV in the evenings, and coexist in the small space with surprising ease.

But something else is happening, something you... don't even want to acknowledge.

You're at the pool, stretched out on a lounge chair in your new bikini; the vibrant green one that Imogen insisted you buy specifically for this trip. The sun is warm on your skin, and you're half-dozing, a frozen drink sweating in your hand, when you become aware of eyes on you.

You open your eyes and glance around. Sure enough, there's a guy a few chairs over, maybe mid-twenties, definitely not part of your group. When he catches you looking, he smiles.

You smile back politely, then close your eyes again. It's flattering, you suppose, but... you're not interested.

What you don't see is Garrick, standing in the pool with Xaden, Bodhi, Liam, and Ridoc, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that makes Xaden elbow him in the ribs.

"Dude," Xaden says, his voice low. "You're staring. Again."

Garrick tears his gaze away, scowling. "I'm am not."

"You absolutely are," Bodhi says, grinning. "You've been staring at her all week. It's actually kind of pathetic."

"I have not-"

"You have," Liam interjects. "And that guy over there has definitely noticed her too. You might have competition."

Garrick's jaw tightens as he glances at the guy who smiled at you. Something hot and possessive coils in his chest, and he hates it. Hates that you're here to begin with... right? Hates how good you look, especially in that swimsuit... God, if you could even call it that. To him, it seemed more like a few sinful strings holding together mere scraps of fabric, definitely more revealing than he appreciated. Especially when it drew the eye of others, right to you.

It shouldn't even matter. He has no claim on you. You're not his. You don't even like him.

Except... the truce has been nice. More than nice. He's caught glimpses of who you are when you're not busy being defensive around him; your laugh when Rhiannon tells a joke, the way you're patient with the resort staff even when they mess up your drink order, the little crease between your eyebrows when you're reading on the beach.

He's been trying not to notice these things. He's been trying not to notice you at all.

It hasn't been working.

"Just admit you want her," Ridoc says, his tone teasing but not unkind. "We all know it. Pretty sure she knows it too."

"She doesn't know anything," Garrick mutters tipping back his drink, "because there's nothing to know."

The guys exchange knowing looks, but mercifully, they drop it.

Garrick risks another glance at you. You've shifted on the lounge chair, and the sunlight catches the water droplets on your skin, making you shimmer. Your hair is damp and wavy from the pool, your lips slightly parted as you doze, and you're so fucking beautiful it makes his chest ache.

He's been half-hard for three days straight just from being near you.

This vacation is torture.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

You're having the same problem.

It hits you on the fifth day, when you're all at the beach and Garrick emerges from the ocean like some kind of cologne commercial, water streaming down his body, his swim trunks clinging to his hips and thighs. He runs a hand through his wet hair, and you watch a droplet of water trail down his neck, over his collarbone, down the center of his chest.

Your mouth goes dry.

Oh... no.

Oh no, no, no. Hell, no.

This cannot be happening. You cannot be attracted to Garrick Tavis, I mean, seriously? You've spent three years perfecting your mutual antagonism. It's safe. It's familiar. It's-

"Earth to Y/N," Imogen says, waving a hand in front of your face. "You okay? You look kind of flushed."

"I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just... hot."

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Want to go in the water?"

You nod, rising quickly. "Yes. Definitely."

You practically flee into the ocean, diving under a wave and letting the cool water shock some sense back into you. But when you surface, pushing your hair back from your face, you find Garrick nearby, treading water.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is different; it's lower, rougher.

You gulp. "Uh... hey."

You're both just floating there, the water lapping between you, and you can't look away from him. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and the light catches in his dark eyes, and you realize with a jolt that he's looking at you the same way you're looking at him.

Like he's fucking starving.

"We should-" you start, but you don't know how to finish the sentence.

"Yeah," he says, even though you haven't said anything. "We should, um..."

Neither of you moves.

A wave rolls through, pushing you slightly closer together, and you can feel the heat of him even through the cool water. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it.

"Garrick-"

"Don't," he says, and there's something almost desperate in his voice. "Just... don't."

You don't know what he's asking you not to do. Don't acknowledge this thing between you? Don't make it real by naming it?

Don't make him want you more than he already does?

The moment breaks when Sawyer dives into the water nearby, sending up a huge splash and making you both laugh. The tension dissipates, but it doesn't disappear. It's still there, humming in the space between you.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

That night, lying in your separate beds in the darkness, you can hear Garrick's breathing. You wonder if he's awake. You wonder if he's thinking about you the way you're thinking about him.

You wonder when you stopped hating him and started wanting him instead.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The sixth evening, someone suggests drinks by the pool. It's your second-to-last night at the resort, and there's a bittersweet quality to the gathering; everyone wanting to soak up every last moment of vacation before you have to return to reality.

You're on your third rum punch, the alcohol warm in your veins, making everything feel soft and hazy around the edges. You're in your mossy green bikini this time with a sheer cover-up skirt that does almost nothing to hide your bum, and you're laughing at something Violet said when you feel it again, that prickling awareness that means someone is watching you.

You glance up and meet Garrick's eyes across the pool deck.

He's sitting with the guys, a beer dangling from his fingers, and he's not even trying to hide the fact that he's staring at you. The look in his eyes makes heat pool low in your belly. It's dark and intense and full of want, and you can't look away.

Liam says something to him, and Garrick responds without breaking eye contact with you. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, and it has nothing to do with the sun that set an hour ago.

"Okay, I'm officially calling it," Rhiannon announces, standing up from her lounge chair. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."

There's a chorus of goodnights as people start to disperse. You stand up too, and the world tilts slightly. You're not drunk, exactly, but you're definitely tipsy, your limbs loose and warm.

"You good?" Imogen asks, steadying you with a hand on your elbow.

"I'm fine," you assure her. "Just gonna head up."

You make it about halfway across the deck before you realize you're not entirely steady on your feet. Those rum punches were stronger than you thought. You're contemplating sitting back down when a hand wraps around your waist, warm and solid.

"I've got you," Garrick says, his voice low near your ear.

Goosebumps erupt over your arms, down your back. You should protest. You should tell him you're fine, that you don't need his help. But his hand feels so good on your waist, his body warm and solid beside you, and you're tired of pretending.

"Mhm... thanks," you murmur, leaning into him more than you probably should.

He guides you toward the resort lobby, his hand never leaving your waist. You're acutely aware of every point of contact -- his fingers splayed across your hip, the brush of his arm against yours, the way your bodies move together as you walk.

"You had a lot to drink," he says, and there's something strained in his voice.

"Not that much. I'm just... relaxed."

"Relaxed. Right."

You glance up at him. His jaw is tight, and he's very deliberately looking straight ahead. "What?"

"Nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Garrick."

He stops walking, turning to face you, and the intensity in his eyes steals your breath. "Do you have any idea-" He stops himself, shaking his head. "Never mind. Let's just get you upstairs."

But you don't want to drop it. The alcohol has loosened something in you, made you brave. "Any idea what?"

He keeps pulling you along, toward the elevators. "It's nothing. Forget it."

"Tell me." You frown.

He frowns back. "No."

"Why not?" You ask, huffing.

"Because," He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Because we have a truce, remember? And if I tell you what I'm thinking right now, that truce is gone. Over. That's the end of it."

Your heart is racing, his skin warm where he touches you.

"Maybe I want it to end."

He stares down at you, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes. "You're drunk."

"I'm tipsy. There's a difference."

He shakes his head slowly. "Not enough of one."

He starts walking again, and you have no choice but to follow, his hand still on your waist. The elevator ride is silent, the air between you full of everything you're not saying. By the time you reach your room, you're practically vibrating with tension.

Garrick unlocks the door and guides you inside, and you expect him to let go of you, to retreat to his side of the room and pretend this never happened.

He doesn't.

His hand is still on your waist, and he's standing so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. You turn to face him, and the look in his eyes makes your knees weak.

"Garrick," you whisper.

"I should-" His voice is rough. "I should let you go to bed."

"But what if I don't want you to?" You ask, gazing up into his eyes.

His fingers tighten on your waist. "Don't say things like that."

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you stare into his handsome face.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm barely holding on as it is!" The confession comes out raw, almost angry. "Do you know how hard this week has been? Watching you in that fucking bikini, watching other guys look at you, knowing I can't-"

He cuts himself off, but it's too late. The words are out there, hanging between you. The room is silent now, your eyes wide.

"You... can't... what?" you ask, even though you know. You need to hear him say it.

"Y/N, I can't touch you, I can't have you." His other hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I can't do all the things I've been fantasizing about doing to you."

Your breath catches, fire igniting in your core. "Who is saying you can't?"

He shakes his head slowly, his expression defeated. "You hate me."

"I don't." The truth of it surprises you, but it's there, undeniable. "I thought I did, but... I don't. I don't think I ever really did."

His expression softens, his throat bobbing as he swallows. "Then what-"

You kiss him then.

You close the distance between you and press your lips to his, and for a second he just freezes, shocked. Then he makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and kisses you back like he's been hungry for it.

His mouth is hot and demanding, his hands sliding into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. You gasp against his lips, and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes heat explode through your body.

You've been kissed before, but never like this. Never with this kind of desperate intensity, like he's trying to consume you, to claim you, to make up for every moment of wanting he's had to suppress.

Your hands find his chest, his skin warm and smooth under your palms, and you can feel his heart racing as fast as yours. He walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of your bed, and then he's lowering you down, following you, his body hovering over yours.

"Tell me to stop," he says against your mouth, even as his hands slide under your cover-up, finding the bare skin of your thighs. "Tell me this is a bad idea."

"It probably is," you admit, arching into his touch. "I don't care, Garrick."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild.

"I've wanted you for so long. Watching you this week, seeing you in that swimsuit, watching other men look at you like they had any right to..."

His hand slides up your ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bikini top. "It's been torture."

"Then stop torturing yourself," you whisper. "...and touch me. Please."

Something in him snaps.

His mouth crashes into yours as his hands make quick work of your cover-up, tossing it aside. He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts above your bikini top, and every touch feels like fire on your skin.

"Do you know how many times I've imagined this?" he murmurs against your skin. "How many times I've laid in that bed, listening to you breathe, wanting to cross the space between us and-"

"Show me," you interrupt, your voice breathless. "Show me what you wanted to do."

He groans, his hands sliding behind you to untie your top. It falls away, and for a moment he just looks at you, his gaze so heated you feel it like a physical touch.

"Fucking beautiful," he says, almost to himself. Then his mouth is on your breast, his tongue circling your nipple, and you cry out, your back arching off the bed.

"God, Garrick," you whine, your fingers tangling through his brown curls. "F-feels so good."

He takes his time, lavishing attention on your breasts until you're writhing beneath him. Then he kisses his way down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the sides of your bikini bottoms.

"Can I?" he asks, looking up at you, and the fact that he's asking, that he's making sure, makes you want him even more.

"Yes. God, yes."

He pulls your bikini bottoms down your legs, tossing them aside, and then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart. He settles between your legs, and the first caress of his mouth on you makes you gasp, your hips jerking.

"Fuck," he groans against you, his voice vibrating against your core. "You taste even better than I imagined."

He's not gentle. He's hungry, almost rough, his tongue and lips working you with single-minded intensity. You're already so worked up, so desperate for him, that it doesn't take long before you're trembling, your thighs shaking around his head.

"Garrick," you gasp, your hands in his hair, pressing his face, his mouth, into your cunt. "I'm going to... oh my God, Im-"

"Come for me," he says against you, and the demand in his voice is what tips you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes through you, intense and overwhelming, and he doesn't stop, working you through it until you're gasping, oversensitive, and pulling at his hair to tug him off of you.

Only after he's licked you clean does he start kissing his way back up your body, and when he reaches your mouth, you can taste yourself on his lips. It should be strange, but it's not; it's erotic, intimate even.

"I need you," you whisper against his mouth, your hands fumbling with his swim trunks. "Please."

He helps you, shoving his trunks down and kicking them off. You catch a glimpse of him, hard and thick and perfect, of course, before he's settling between your thighs again, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Because once I start, I don't know if I'll be able to stop."

"Don't stop," you tell him. "Please don't stop."

He pushes into you slowly, and you both groan at the sensation. He's big, stretching you, filling you completely, and it's nearly too much but also exactly what you need.

"Fuck," he grits out, his forehead pressed to yours. "You feel so good. So fucking good."

He starts to move, slow at first, letting you adjust, but you can feel the tension in his body, the way he's holding himself back. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he growls in warning.

"Don't hold back," you tell him. "I want all of you."

That's all the permission he needs.

His control shatters, and he starts to move faster, his hips snapping against yours, hard and deep. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, your thighs meeting his hips thrust for thrust.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, his voice rough in your ear. "Is this what you've been thinking about, every time you run that smart mouth of yours?"

"Yes," you gasp. "God, yes."

"I think of this... every fucking day, Y/N," He shifts the angle slightly, hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Watching you, wanting you, imagining what you'd look like under me, what little sounds you'd make-"

You're already close again, the tension building impossibly fast. He seems to sense it, one hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure.

"Come on," he urges. "Come for me again. I want to feel you come on my cock, baby."

Whimpering, you gaze up at him, watching how he studies you with a predatory hunger. His eyes are dark, focused as he watches you, his thumb on your clit pressing harder as he rubs you.

"You take me so well, Y/N," he praises, his voice gruff. He leans in, kissing your lips once before kissing down your throat. "I've always been yours to take though, anyway."

You shatter, this orgasm even more intense than the first, and you cry out his name as pleasure floods through you, your walls clenching around his length. Your fingers dig into his muscled back as you gasp, each wave of ecstacy rolling through you as his drives begin to turn sloppy.

A small smile appears as your lips part, the tipsy words tumbling free.

"I think I've always been yours to take too, Garrick."

He finishes seconds later, groaning into your neck as he comes, his hips stuttering against yours. It's warm as he fills you, his cock twitching as he comes, still snug within you. Yet another thing you typically wouldn't allow, either.

For a long moment, neither of you move, both still breathing hard, your bodies still joined. Then he carefully pulls out and rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest. You say nothing as he pulls your leg over his waist, his hand finding your waist to tug you even closer.

"So," he says after a moment, his voice rough and satisfied. "That, um... happened."

You laugh, the sound breathless, your head still fuzzy. "Yeah. It did."

He's quiet for a moment, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back.

"For the record," he says finally, "I don't hate you. I never did."

You tilt your head to look up at him, the raw admission mere minutes ago not quite registering to you yet. "Then why-"

"Because it was easier than admitting I wanted you." He meets your eyes, and there's a vulnerability there you've never seen before. "Easier than risking you not wanting me back."

Your heart squeezes. "I... do, want you back though, Garrick. I think I have for a while, I was just... too stubborn to admit it."

He smiles, and it's different from his usual smirk. This is softer, more genuine. "We're both stubborn. It's one of the things..." He pauses, his smile faltering.

You frown. "What?"

"It's... one of the things I really love about you, if I'm being honest." he finishes quietly. Your expression relaxes, your gaze landing on his lips as you wiggle in his grasp, moving to take his face in your hands.

You kiss him, slow and sweet this time, without the desperate urgency from before. He smiles softly into it, his heart still racing where his chest is pressed against yours.

When you pull back, you're both grinning.

"So what happens now?" you ask. "When we go back to school? Or, better yet, when we spend our last day here tomorrow?"

Garrick sighs, his fingers gently tucking your hair behind your ear.

"I don't know," he admits. "But I know I don't want to go back to pretending I don't want you. I'm done with that."

Your cheeks warm, and your heart flutters just at the thought of that.

"Me too."

He pulls you closer, and you settle against him, listening to his heartbeat. Outside, you can hear the ocean, the sound of waves against the shore, and for the first time all week, you feel completely at peace.

"Hey," Garrick says, his voice drowsy.

"Yeah?" You say, yawning. Garrick shifts to tug the sheets up over the two of you, not daring to retreat to his own bed for the night.

"You know our friends are never going to let us live this down, right?" he says, chuckling softly.

You giggle, because he's absolutely right. "Probably not."

"Worth it though."

You smile against his chest, snuggling closer. "Definitely worth it."

You fall asleep like that, tangled together in the bed that's suddenly not too small at all, the tension that's been building all week finally, blissfully resolved.

And when you wake up in the morning, still wrapped in his arms, you realize that maybe this vacation turned out to be just what you needed after all.