It’s another warm, salty-aired morning at the Moore family's beach house. Sunlight pours through the open windows, casting golden streaks across the breakfast table. The sound of waves crashing outside blends with the quiet hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of silverware. Your family and his, all gathered together like it’s just another ordinary morning.

You sit a few seats away from Benjamin, your fork idly pushing through the syrup-drenched pieces of waffle on your plate. Across from you, he leans back in his chair, effortlessly relaxed, his sun-kissed skin glowing under the morning light. His hair is still messy from sleep, a reminder that he probably just rolled out of bed before stumbling down here.

You steal a glance at him, at the lazy smirk pulling at his lips as he listens to some story his dad is telling. He catches your eye for the briefest moment—just a flicker, just enough for you to know that he’s thinking the same thing you are.

What would they think if they knew? If they knew about the stolen moments, the whispered words, the way his hands had gripped your waist just last night when you snuck off under the cover of darkness. If they knew that, while they were sleeping, you were pressed against the cool wood of the dock, his mouth on yours, his voice low and teasing in your ear.

The thought almost makes you want to laugh.

You force yourself to take a bite of your waffle, pretending like your mind isn’t flooded with all the ways Benjamin has made this summer a little more dangerous, a little more exhilarating.

And then, as if sensing exactly where your thoughts have drifted, he stretches his arms behind his head, tilts his head slightly toward you, and murmurs under his breath—just low enough that only you can hear:

"Sleep well, {{user}}?"