The view that's killing me

~Ethan~

I should have stayed home tonight.

Not the beach house. Home home. Back in the city where the walls are thick and the distance between me and Mia is measured in miles instead of inches. But no. I’m here, crammed into a pirate themed beach bar that smells like regret and fried seafood, watching her sip a piña colada like she doesn’t know she’s unraveling me thread by thread.

She’s been avoiding my eyes all day. Ever since the paddleboard incident this morning when she ate shit in the most spectacular way possible. Arms flailing, legs kicking, face first into the Gulf like she was trying to drown the board before it drowned her. I laughed until my ribs hurt. She called me an asshole. I called her graceful. We’ve been sniping at each other ever since.

Now we’re at the bar. Her thigh is pressed against mine under the counter because the stools are too damn close and neither of us is moving. I can feel the heat of her skin through my board shorts. It’s distracting as hell.

“You gonna sulk all night?” I ask, mostly to hear her voice.

“I’m not sulking. I’m enjoying the ambiance.”

Ambiance. Christ. She says it like she’s reading from a travel brochure. I lean in just enough to catch the coconut scent clinging to her hair.

“You’re glaring at the ocean like it owes you money.”

“Maybe I just don’t like being crowded.”

“You’re not crowded. You’re avoiding me.”

“Big difference.”

I smirk because it’s easier than admitting she’s right. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of pretending Mia Reynolds is just Noah’s little sister. The kid who used to steal my fries and punch me in the arm when I called her squirt. Except she stopped being a kid somewhere between high school graduation and now, and every time she walks into a room I have to remind myself she’s off limits. Noah’s off limits. Best friend code. Blood oath shit.

But tonight the code feels paper thin.

We bicker about the paddleboard again because apparently I can’t let it go.

“You looked like a drunk flamingo,” I tell her, grinning because watching her get mad is my new favorite hobby. “Legs everywhere. Arms windmilling. Classic.”

“Shut up. At least I tried.”

“Tried? You assaulted the board. It was self defense when it threw you off.”

Her eyes narrow. Pretty brown eyes that turn gold when she’s pissed. “You didn’t even attempt it.”

“Didn’t need to. I can stand on water without looking like I’m having a seizure.”

“Oh my God.” She slams her drink down. Rum sloshes over the edge. “You’re so full of yourself. It’s a paddleboard, not a personality trait.”

I shrug. “I’m just saying, if you’re gonna talk shit about my balance, maybe don’t fall on your ass in front of God and everybody.”

“I didn’t fall on my ass. I fell forward. Gracefully.”

“Gracefully,” I repeat. “Sure. The ocean was clapping for you.”

That’s when she snaps.

“Fuck you,” she hisses, middle finger popping up between us like a middle finger should. Sharp, defiant, perfect.

My brain flatlines for half a second.

Then I lean in, voice low, just for her.

“Yeah,” I say. “We can totally do that.”

Her eyes go wide. Shock. Then disgust. Or maybe something else she doesn’t want to name.

“Ewwww,” she spits, shoving my shoulder hard. “Gross. You’re disgusting.”

I laugh because if I don’t laugh I might do something stupider. Like pull her onto my lap right here in front of God and the bartender who calls everyone chief.

She storms off toward the water. I let her go. Mostly because if I follow her right now I’m not sure I’d stop at talking.

The ride home is loud. Jax yelling lyrics wrong. Lena giggling in Noah’s lap. Mia next to me in the back row, thigh still pressed to mine every time we hit a pothole. I stare out the window and try not to think about how soft her skin feels. How close her hand is to mine on the seat. How easy it would be to lace our fingers together and pretend it’s nothing.

Back at the house someone yells “bikini party” and the night turns feral in the best way. Rooftop deck. Lights. Music. Cooler dragged up like we’re celebrating the end of civilization.

I’m leaning on the railing talking to Jax about nothing when she walks out.

Black bikini.

High cut.

Tiny triangles tied with strings that look like they’d snap if you breathed on them wrong.

Sheer cover up floating open in the breeze like it’s trying to ruin me personally.

Jax whistles. Lena squeals. Noah gives her the brother nod. Protective but clueless.

I can’t look away.

My beer stops halfway to my mouth.

She drops the cover up onto a chair. Bare skin. Tan lines I didn’t know she had. The dip of her waist. The curve of her hips. Legs that go on forever. She laughs at something Lena says and her whole body moves. Soft, confident, fucking lethal.

I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I can’t stop.

Every time she turns I track her. The way the string lights catch on her collarbone. The way her hair swings when she dances. The way the bikini bottom rides up just enough when she bends to grab a drink.

I’m fucked.

Completely, irreversibly fucked.

She catches me looking once. Our eyes lock across the deck. Her lips part like she’s surprised I’m still watching. Like she didn’t expect the hunger to be this obvious.

I don’t smile. Don’t smirk. Just hold her gaze until she looks away first.

The party winds down. People crash. I stay on the deck because if I go inside I’ll end up outside her door and that’s a line I’m not ready to cross. Yet.

She lingers too.

Wind off the ocean. Waves whispering below us. She leans on the railing, arms crossed under her chest, pushing everything up in a way that should be illegal.

I step beside her. Close. Our arms brush.

“You good?” I ask, quieter than I mean to.

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches. Thick. Heavy.

I can’t help it.

“You look fucking incredible tonight.”

It comes out rough. Honest. No filter.

She turns her head. Meets my eyes. Hers are wide, dark, uncertain.

My pulse hammers in my throat.

“Goodnight, Ethan,” she whispers.

She walks away.

I watch her go. Every step, every sway of her hips. Until she disappears down the stairs.

I grip the railing so hard my knuckles turn white.

Sweet dreams?

No chance.

Not when the only thing I can see behind my eyelids is her in that black bikini, looking at me like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.