Caught in the wrong light

~Mia~

The first full day hit like a fever dream.

We woke up to sun already blasting through every window. No curtains in this place, apparently Aaron believed in “living in the light” or whatever rich-people philosophy came with owning half the coastline. My head throbbed faintly from the rose we killed on the rooftop deck at 2 a.m., and my mouth tasted like regret and pineapple chunks.

Downstairs was chaos in the best way. Jax was shirtless, flipping pancakes on the massive gas range like he was auditioning for a cooking show, while Lena filmed him for content. Noah wandered out in board shorts and bedhead, yawning so wide I could see his tonsils. Ethan was already up, because of course he was, leaning against the island with a mug of black coffee, scrolling his phone, looking annoyingly awake and annoyingly good in nothing but low-slung gray sweats and a faded black tee.

“Morning, trouble,” he said without looking up.

I flipped him off on my way to the fridge. “Don’t start.”

He smirked into his coffee.

We spent the morning at the beach because that’s what you do when you illegally squat in paradise. Volleyball turned into tackle football turned into someone (Jax) getting buried up to his neck in sand while the rest of us took turns pouring beer into his mouth like a human keg. I laughed until my stomach hurt. For a few hours, everything felt easy. Normal. Like we were just a group of friends on vacation, not a bunch of twenty-somethings committing light felony.

By late afternoon the heat had turned brutal, so we dragged ourselves back to the house, sticky with salt and sand. Lena announced she and Noah were “showering” (air quotes hers, winks included), and disappeared upstairs. Jax passed out on a lounge chair by the pool with a towel over his face. That left me and Ethan.

I was in the kitchen trying to make something edible for dinner because someone had to, and failing spectacularly. I’d burned the garlic in thirty seconds flat and was now staring at a smoking pan like it had personally betrayed me.

Ethan wandered in, still shirtless from the beach, towel slung over one shoulder. He took one look at the disaster and raised an eyebrow.

“You trying to set the house on fire, or is this performance art?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, scraping charred bits into the trash. “I can cook.”

“You cannot.” He reached past me, turned off the burner, and hip-checked me out of the way with casual authority. “Move. Before we all die of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

I crossed my arms. “I was handling it.”

“You were committing arson.”

He started salvaging what he could, chopping fresh garlic like he was born with a knife in his hand, tossing olive oil into a clean pan, adding chili flakes and tomatoes from the fridge like it was nothing. I watched his forearms flex, the way the muscles shifted under his skin, and had to look away before my brain short-circuited.

“Why are you even good at this?” I asked, mostly to fill the silence.

“Someone had to feed myself after my mom stopped cooking for me.” He shrugged, not looking at me. “Plus, girls like a guy who can cook.”

I snorted. “Subtle.”

He glanced over, eyes glinting. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

Heat crawled up my neck again. I busied myself grabbing plates, setting the island instead of staring at him like a creep.

That’s when I heard it.

A muffled moan from upstairs. Then another. Then the unmistakable rhythmic creak of a bedframe.

My face went nuclear.

Noah and Lena. Obviously. They’d been “showering” for like forty-five minutes.

I froze, plate halfway to the table, mortified on behalf of everyone involved.

Ethan noticed immediately. He turned down the heat on the stove, wiped his hands on the dish towel, and cocked his head toward the ceiling.

“Sounds like your brother’s putting in work,” he said, deadpan.

“Shut up,” I hissed, cheeks burning so hot I could have cooked the pasta on them.

He stepped closer, too close, lowering his voice. “You gonna stand there blushing or go check on them? Make sure they’re hydrating?”

“I hate you,” I whispered, shoving past him toward the stairs because I needed to be anywhere else.

Big mistake.

I crept up just far enough to peek around the corner, pure morbid curiosity, I swear, and caught the open bedroom door at the end of the hall. Noah had Lena bent over the edge of the bed, her hands braced on the mattress, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that left zero room for interpretation. Her hair was a wild mess, back arched, mouth open in a silent cry.

I yelped, actually yelped, and spun so fast I almost fell down the stairs.

Ethan was right behind me.

He caught me by the waist before I could eat the steps, pulling me back against his chest. His laugh was low and wicked against my ear.

“Jesus, Mia. Voyeurism’s a new look for you.”

“Let go,” I squeaked, shoving at his arms. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might crack a rib.

He didn’t let go. Just held me there, one arm banded across my stomach, the other hand lightly gripping my hip. “You’re bright red. It’s cute.”

“I’m going to murder you.”

“After dinner?” He finally released me, but not before his thumb brushed the bare skin under my cropped tank, once, deliberate. “Come on. Food’s almost ready. You can hide your face in a plate of spaghetti.”

I shoved him again for good measure and stormed back downstairs, trying to pretend my entire body wasn’t on fire from embarrassment and something dangerously close to want.

He followed, still chuckling.

By the time we sat at the island, the pasta was perfect, al dente, garlicky, with just enough heat from the chili flakes to make my lips tingle. He slid a bowl in front of me without asking, then sat across from me, elbows on the counter, watching me take the first bite like he needed my approval.

It was stupidly good.

I hated that it was stupidly good.

“This is… fine,” I said around a mouthful.

He grinned. “High praise.”

We ate in relative silence, the sounds from upstairs having mercifully quieted. Every now and then our knees bumped under the island. Neither of us moved away.

After the bowls were empty, I pushed mine back and met his eyes. “Thanks. For cooking. I would have poisoned us all.”

“Anytime.” He leaned forward, forearms flexing again. “But next time, just admit you suck at it. Saves the smoke alarm.”

“I don’t suck.”

“You do. But it’s endearing.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling despite myself. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re still here eating my food.” He stood, collected the bowls, brushed past me on his way to the sink. His hip grazed mine. Again. “Guess that makes us even.”

I stayed seated, watching the muscles in his back shift as he rinsed dishes. The house was quiet now, Jax still passed out outside, Noah and Lena probably crashed. Just us.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You gonna help, or just stare?”

“I’m supervising.”

“Lazy.”

“Entitled.”

He dried his hands, turned, and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. The way he looked at me then, steady, unblinking, made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment anymore.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said quietly.

I swallowed. “Takes one to know one.”

His mouth curved, slow and dangerous.

And just like that, the air between us thickened again, thicker than the Florida humidity, thicker than the garlic lingering on my tongue.

I stood up before I did something stupid.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced, too loud.

He didn’t move. Just watched me go. “Night, Mia.”

“Night, Ethan.”

I made it halfway up the stairs before I heard him murmur, almost to himself,

“Sweet dreams.”

I didn’t sleep for hours.