The First Night

Jake's Pov

I couldn't stop shaking.

My hands trembled as I gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

My pupils were blown wide, my lips still tingling from the margaritas, my skin flushed and hot but it wasn't the alcohol making me feel like this.

It was him.

Be careful, Jake. This week is going to test both of us.

Both of us.

That meant Marcus could feel the tension too.

I wasn't imagining things. I wasn't some stupid kid with a crush.

This was mutual.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to snap myself out of it.

Devon was my best friend. Marcus was his father. There were lines you didn't cross, boundaries that existed for good reasons. I needed to get my head straight before dinner.

But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was the way Marcus had looked at me in the pool. The way his eyes had dropped to my mouth. The way he'd leaned in close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body.

A knock on the door made me jump.

"Jake! You alive in there?" Devon's voice, slightly slurred. "Dinner's almost ready. Dad's making that Thai thing you like."

Of course he remembered what I liked.

"Yeah, I'll be right out," I called back, my voice steadier than I felt.

I pulled on a clean t-shirt and jeans, ran my fingers through my damp hair one more time, and headed downstairs. The smell of lemongrass, garlic and chili paste hit me immediately.

My stomach growled despite the knots of anxiety twisting through my gut.

The dining room table was already set. Emma was pouring wine into oversized glasses while Devon attempted to light candles without setting the tablecloth on fire. And

Marcus was in the kitchen, his back to me as he stirred something on the stove.

He'd changed too. He was now wearing ark henley that hugged his shoulders with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. I watched the muscles flex as he moved, and my mouth went dry.

"Need any help?" I asked, forcing myself to sound casual.

He glanced back over his shoulder, and gave me a very small smile, "You can bring out the serving bowls. They're on the counter."

I moved into the kitchen, acutely aware of the limited space and how close we'd be. The counter was right next to the stove. I'd have to reach past him.

My heart hammered as I stepped closer. I could feel the heat from the burner and his body. Our arms almost touched as I grabbed the first bowl.

"Careful," Marcus said, his voice low. "It's hot."

I knew he wasn't talking about the bowl.

I grabbed it anyway, our fingers brushing for just a second. The contact sent electricity shooting up my arm. I sucked in a breath and nearly dropped the damn thing.

Marcus's hand shot out, steadying the bowl and steadying me. His palm was warm against my wrist and his grip firm. We stood there frozen, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my knees weak.

"I've got it," I managed, but neither of us moved.

"Jake! Marcus! You guys coming or what?" Devon's voice shattered the moment.

Marcus released my wrist slowly, deliberately, his fingers dragging across my skin in a way that couldn't be accidental. "Better not keep them waiting."

Dinner was torture.

Not because the food wasn't good – it was definitely incredible, complex and spicy and perfectly balanced.

But because I was sitting directly across from Marcus, and every time I looked up, he was watching me. Not obviously. Not in a way that Devon or Emma would notice but I noticed.

I noticed everything from the way his throat moved when he drank his wine to the way his tongue darted out to catch a drop of sauce on his lower lip.

I noticed the way his fingers wrapped around his fork, strong and confident and making me think about those hands on my skin.

"So Jake," Emma said, breaking through my increasingly inappropriate thoughts. "Devon said you got into Berkeley? That's amazing!"

"Yeah, I start in the fall." I forced myself to focus on her, and the conversation or anything other than the man across from me. "Undecided major still, but I'm thinking maybe psychology."

"Marcus studied psychology," Devon said through a mouthful of noodles. "Before he sold out and went into marketing."

Marcus laughed, and the sound vibrated through my chest. "I prefer 'applied my degree to a lucrative career path,' but sure."

"You think you'll stay in California?" Emma asked me.

"Probably. I mean, there's not much for me back home anyway." The words came out more bitter than I intended. My parents had made it clear they expected me to come back after graduation and take over the family business.

They'd always want me to live the life they'd planned for me bt that life felt suffocating and just wrong.

"Sometimes distance is good," Marcus said quietly, his eyes on mine. "Helps you figure out who you are without everyone else's expectations weighing you down."

It felt like he was talking about more than just college.

"Dude, you're getting so philosophical," Devon groaned. "Can we please not do the deep life advice thing on my birthday?"

"You're right. Sorry." Marcus raised his wine glass. "To Devon. Eighteen years old and still a pain in my ass."

We all laughed and clinked glasses, and the moment passed but I could still feel the weight of Marcus's words, the understanding in his eyes. He got it.

He got me in a way most people didn't.

After dinner, Devon and Emma declared they were going to watch a movie in the den, which everyone knew was code for making out in the dark.

They disappeared quickly, leaving me alone with Marcus and a sink full of dishes.

"I'll help clean up," I offered, already gathering plates.

"You don't have to do that. You're a guest." Marcus said.

"I want to."

Marcus studied me for a moment, then nodded.

"Alright. I'll wash, you dry."

We worked in silence at first, falling into an easy rhythm but the kitchen felt smaller now, more intimate.

Every time Marcus handed me a wet plate, our fingers touched. Every time I reached for the towel, I brushed against his arm. The air between us was thick with tension, with everything we weren't saying.

"Jake." His voice was rough. He'd stopped washing, his hands gripping the edge of the sink. "We need to talk about this."

My pulse spiked. "About what?"

He turned to face me fully, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. "Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

I set down the dish I was holding before I dropped it. "Maybe I want to hear you say it."

"This –" He gestured between us. " –whatever this is. It can't happen."

"Why not?" The words were out before I could stop them.

"You know why." But he took a step closer, contradicting his own warning. "You're eighteen. You're my son's best friend. There are about a hundred reasons why this is a terrible idea."

"But you feel it too." I took my own step forward, emboldened by the wine and the way he was looking at me like he wanted to devour me. "You said this week would test us both. That means you feel it."

"Of course I feel it." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I've felt it since you walked through that gate today and looked at me like –" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

"Like what?"

"Like you wanted me to fuck you."

The blunt words sent heat flooding through my body. My breath came faster. "What if I do?"

Marcus's control cracked. He closed the distance between us in one stride, backing me against the counter.

His hands gripped the granite on either side of me, caging me in, his body so close I could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" His voice was strained. He sounded almost angry. "Walking around in those swim trunks, looking at me like that, biting your lip every time I talk to you?"

"I could say the same thing." My voice came out breathy. "You've been watching me all day. Don't pretend you haven't.

"I have." His eyes were dark, pupils blown. "I've been watching you for three goddamn hours trying to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to survive a week of this."

"Then don't survive it." I was playing with fire and I didn't care. "Stop fighting it."

For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. His gaze dropped to my mouth, and he leaned in just slightly, close enough that I could smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and feel his breath on my lips.

But he stopped himself.

"Not like this," he said roughly. "Not when you've been drinking. Not when my son is in the next room." He pushed back from the counter, putting space between us, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Jesus Christ, Jake."

I was left panting against the counter, my entire body thrumming with unfulfilled need. "Marcus –"

"Go to bed." His voice was hard now, controlled. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were clenched into fists. "Please. Just go to bed."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a plea.

I grabbed the dish towel and threw it on the counter, not trusting myself to speak. As I walked past him toward the stairs, I felt his hand catch my wrist – just for a second, just long enough for his thumb to stroke across my pulse point.

Then he let go.

I didn't look back as I climbed the stairs, but I could feel his eyes on me the entire way.

When I reached the guest room and closed the door behind me, I was shaking again, but this time it wasn't from fear or nerves.

It was from want. Pure, desperate want.

I lay in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, my body wound so tight I thought I might snap.

Every nerve ending was alive, hypersensitive, aching for a touch that didn't come.

I could hear the house settling around me – Devon and Emma's muffled laughter from down the hall, footsteps on the stairs, a door closing.

Marcus's door.

I imagined him lying in his bed just down the hall, probably as unable to sleep as I was. I wondered if he was thinking about me and if he was hard.

I imagined his hand was wrapped around himself, with my name was on his lips.

The thought made me groan into my pillow.

This week was going to kill me.

But God, what a way to die.