The week passed fast.
Too fast.
Ethan had barely slept, barely eaten, barely breathed between exams and assignments. But now, with the last paper submitted and his mind finally free, he was back at the bar—his second home, his escape.
He arrived early, just after 4pm, the sun still hanging low in the sky. The bar was quiet, its lights dimmed, its counters still cool from the night before. He slipped behind the bar, tying his apron, checking the stock, wiping down the surfaces with practiced ease.
He wasn't alone.
Ashton, a new hire, was already there—two years older, fresh from working overseas, with a confident smile and a voice that carried. He was friendly, casual, and clearly knew his way around a shaker.
"You're Ethan, right?" Ashton asked, tossing him a clean towel.
"Yeah. You're the new guy?"
"Ashton. Just started last week. You missed all the chaos."
They laughed. It was easy. They were close in age, and Ashton had that kind of charm that made people lean in. They chatted as they prepped—stocking glasses, slicing fruit, testing the sound system. Ashton showed Ethan a few tricks he'd picked up abroad, including a new cocktail with rosemary and burnt orange.
"You've got good hands," Ashton said, watching Ethan mix.
Ethan chuckled. "I've had practice."
Then the door creaked.
And Joss walked in.
He was early. Earlier than usual. The bar wasn't even open yet, but no one stopped him. This was his territory. His presence alone was permission.
Ethan's eyes lit up.
"Hey!" he called out, voice bright, unguarded.
Joss's gaze locked onto him, and something in his chest eased. That voice. That smile. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it until now.
Ethan stepped forward. "You're early."
"So are you."
Ethan laughed. "I guess I couldn't wait to get back."
Joss's lips curved, teasing. "Couldn't wait to work? Or couldn't wait to see someone?"
Ethan flushed, but didn't answer. He turned to Ashton. "This is Ashton. He's new."
Joss nodded, polite but distant. "Nice to meet you."
Ashton offered a handshake. Joss didn't take it.
His eyes were already back on Ethan.
Ethan started updating him—exams, assignments, the bridge model he finally finished. Joss listened, leaning against the bar, his posture relaxed but his attention razor-sharp.
He forgot Ashton was even there.
But Ashton didn't forget.
He watched the way Joss looked at Ethan. The way Ethan's voice softened when he spoke to him. The way the air between them felt charged, like something had already happened—or was about to.
If Ashton wanted Ethan, he'd have to step up.
The bar opened.
Customers trickled in, music rising, lights warming. The air buzzed with anticipation, the scent of citrus and liquor mingling with the low hum of conversation.
Ethan moved like water—fluid, focused, magnetic. His hands were swift, his smile soft, his presence quietly captivating. He didn't notice the way eyes followed him. But Ashton did.
And Ashton stayed close.
Too close.
He leaned in when he didn't need to. Brushed fingers when passing bottles. Rested his hand on Ethan's lower back when reaching for the shaker behind him. It was subtle—just enough to be excused as casual, but deliberate enough to make Joss's blood stir.
"You should try this one," Ashton said, sliding a glass toward Ethan, his fingers lingering on the rim just long enough to brush Ethan's knuckles.
"It's one of my favorites."
Their skin touched.
Ethan smiled, distracted. "Thanks."
Ashton leaned in again, this time to adjust Ethan's grip on the glass. His hand wrapped around Ethan's, guiding it gently, his breath brushing Ethan's cheek.
"Tilt it just a little more. Like that."
Joss sat at the bar.
He didn't go to his usual private seat.
He stayed.
Watched.
Burned.
His eyes tracked every movement—every time Ashton's hand found Ethan's arm, every time he leaned too close, every time he laughed a little too loud at something Ethan said.
Ethan didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe he did, but didn't know what to do with it.
Ashton reached around Ethan to grab a bottle, his chest brushing Ethan's back. Ethan stepped aside instinctively, but Ashton didn't move away immediately. His hand lingered on Ethan's shoulder, squeezing lightly before letting go.
Joss's grip tightened around his glass.
His jaw clenched.
His fingers tapped against the counter—slow, rhythmic, like a warning.
He wanted to jump the bar.
To pull Ashton aside.
To remind him who Ethan belonged to.
But he didn't.
He stayed.
Silent.
Simmering.
Ashton laughed again, tossing an arm casually around Ethan's shoulders as they both looked at a drink menu. Ethan shifted, but didn't push him away.
Joss's eyes narrowed.
He could feel it—Ashton was testing boundaries. Not just with Ethan, but with him. Like a challenge. Like a dare.
And Ethan, sweet and unaware, was caught in the middle.
Joss leaned forward, elbows on the bar, gaze locked on Ashton's hand as it slid down Ethan's arm in a mock gesture of "guidance."
He imagined grabbing that hand.
Twisting it away.
Claiming Ethan in front of everyone.
But he didn't.
He reminded himself—don't be a beast.
Not yet. He kept his cool. Barely.
Closing time came.
The bar dimmed, the last customer gone, the music faded into a low hum. Ethan wiped down the counter, his movements slower now, fatigue settling into his limbs—but his heart still restless.
Ashton leaned against the wall, helmet in hand, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.
"I can send you back," he offered, voice smooth. "Got my bike. It's fast."
Ethan hesitated.
He didn't dislike Ashton. But something about the offer felt… loaded.
Before he could respond, Joss stood.
No words.
Just movement.
He walked over, calm but deliberate, and reached for Ethan's hand. His fingers curled around Ethan's wrist—not forceful, but firm. Possessive.
Ethan blinked, startled.
Joss didn't look at Ashton.
Didn't need to.
He simply turned and guided Ethan toward the door.
Ashton didn't move.
His lips parted in a dry smirk, eyes narrowing like a lion watching another claim the prize.
The car ride was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that wasn't empty—but full. Heavy. Charged.
Ethan sat stiffly, hands in his lap, eyes flicking to Joss's profile. The streetlights cast fleeting shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the steering wheel just a little too tight.
Ethan fidgeted.
"So… Ashton's kind of intense, huh?"
Joss didn't answer.
Ethan tried again, voice lighter. "I mean, he's nice. Just a little—forward."
Still silence.
Ethan exhaled, the sound shaky. "I don't know what I'm saying. I just—"
Joss pulled over.
The car slowed, tires crunching softly against the gravel shoulder. He shifted into park, then turned to Ethan.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, neither moved.
Joss's gaze was unreadable—dark, searching, full of something Ethan couldn't name but felt in his chest like a tremor.
"You don't have to say anything," Joss said quietly.
Then he leaned in.
Slow.
Measured.
His hand reached up, brushing Ethan's cheek, thumb grazing the edge of his jaw. Ethan's breath caught.
And then—
The kiss.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't soft.
It was deliberate.
It was everything Joss had been holding back.
Ethan froze.
His lips parted, unsure, inexperienced—but willing. His heart pounded so loud he was sure Joss could hear it. Joss's hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling gently, guiding him closer. His other hand moved to Ethan's waist, then up—fingertips grazing ribs, tracing the curve of his side.
Ethan's hands found Joss's chest, then shoulders, then hair.
He didn't know what he was doing.
But he wanted it.
Wanted him.
The kiss deepened.
Breath tangled.
Bodies leaned.
Joss's hand moved to Ethan's hair, fingers threading through, tugging softly. His other hand caressed Ethan's back, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing him.
Ethan gasped.
Not from fear.
From want.
From surprise.
From the ache of being touched like this—like he mattered.
Joss pulled back instantly.
"You okay?"
Ethan nodded, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes wide.
"I've never…" he whispered.
Joss smiled, tender. "I know."
He ruffled Ethan's hair, brushed a thumb across his cheek.
"Let's send you home."
That night, Ethan fell asleep fast.
The sheets were cool against his skin, the room dim and quiet, but his mind was anything but still. His lips still tingled from the kiss. His chest felt tight, like something had been unlocked and now refused to settle.
And then—
The dream came.
It wasn't soft.
It was heat.
It was want.
Joss was there, standing in the doorway of Ethan's hostel room, shirt unbuttoned, eyes dark with something unspoken. He walked toward him slowly, like he had all the time in the world, like Ethan was the only thing he wanted to touch.
"You've been thinking about me," Joss whispered, voice low, velvet.
Ethan couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
Could only feel.
Joss's hands reached for him—warm, sure, reverent. They slid over his shoulders, down his arms, then back up to cup his face. His thumbs brushed Ethan's cheekbones, then traced the curve of his lips.
"Let me show you," he murmured.
Then his mouth was on Ethan's neck, lips soft but hungry, tongue flicking against the pulse point. Ethan gasped, his body arching instinctively, hands gripping the sheets beneath him.
Joss kissed down—slow, deliberate—across his collarbone, over his chest, pausing to suck gently at the sensitive skin just above his heart. Ethan whimpered, breath hitching, hips shifting.
"You feel so good," Joss whispered, voice thick with need.
His hands roamed lower, fingers grazing Ethan's stomach, teasing the waistband of his pants. Ethan's skin burned beneath every touch, every breath, every word.
And then—
Joss's hand slipped beneath the fabric.
Ethan moaned.
His body arched, desperate, trembling.
He woke up hard.
Panting.
Wanting.
The dream clung to him like sweat—his skin flushed, his breath shallow, his heart racing. He lay there for a moment, dazed, aching, the image of Joss's mouth still vivid in his mind.
He couldn't help it.
His hand slipped beneath the sheets, fingers wrapping around himself, stroking slowly. His hips lifted slightly, chasing the rhythm, chasing the memory. He imagined Joss's voice in his ear, low and possessive.
"You're mine."
He pictured Joss's hands—firm, knowing—pulling him close, guiding him, claiming him.
His breath came in shallow bursts, lips parted, eyes half-closed.
He whispered Joss's name.
Again.
And again.
His body tightened, the pleasure building, cresting, until—
He came with a quiet gasp, body trembling, toes curling, chest heaving.
The sheets were damp.
His skin glowed.
And when he lay there, spent and flushed, heart still racing, he whispered into the dark:
"Joss…"
Not just a name.
A need.
A promise.