SEVEN TRISTAN
SEVEN
TRISTAN
I can't get last night out of my head. My body still tingles remembering Myles's touch, his taste lingering on my lips like the sweetest sin. The way his skin had felt against mine, warm and inviting, has left me craving more.
"God, I need to see him again," I mutter under my breath, pacing in my apartment.
My heart wars with my mind, torn between wanting Myles and knowing he's still grieving Cara's death. Not to mention, he’ll undoubtedly be grappling with the realization of his newfound bisexuality.
But my desire for Myles overpowers my rational thinking, leaving me searching for an excuse to see him again.
Then it hits me: game night. Myles mentioned how much he and Cara used to enjoy playing chess together and how he'd missed playing it. Going off of memory, I grab my coat and keys, rushing out the door to buy a chess set.
The store bustles with shoppers, but I don't care. I'm laser-focused on finding the perfect chess set that'll bring Myles closer to me. I can already imagine the joy in his eyes as he sees it, rekindling memories of simpler times. It's just the excuse I need.
"Gotcha," I whisper triumphantly, picking up a beautifully-crafted wooden chess set from the shelf. Its intricate carvings and polished pieces call out to me. I can feel the anticipation bubbling within me as I purchase the set and hurry back home.
"Let the games begin," I think, clutching the chess set tightly as I make my way back to my apartment. The cool air nips at my face, but the warmth inside me grows stronger with every step.
Later, I step out of the shower, steam clinging to my skin and fogging up the mirror.
Wrapped in a towel, I shiver as goosebumps race across my body, the anticipation of seeing Myles again making me feel alive.
The chess set sits on my bed, waiting for its purpose to be fulfilled.
Grabbing it, I can't help but smile at the thought of Myles's reaction. My heart is pounding with excitement.
The moment I open my apartment door, my breath catches in my throat. There, standing just inches away from me, is Myles. His hand is raised, poised to knock, his eyes wide with surprise. Our gazes lock, and my pulse quickens.
"Hey," he says softly, taking in my appearance. "I was coming to see you."
"Great minds think alike," I reply, grinning. "I got us something." I raise the box in my hand. "Chess."
"Really?" Myles's face lights up, his dimple deepening. "That's amazing."
"Let's not waste any more time." We head inside, setting up the chessboard on my living room floor. Sitting cross-legged, facing each other, we're so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Prepare to be defeated," I tease, moving my pawn forward.
"Ha! In your dreams," Myles retorts, countering my move with his own.
Back and forth we go, laughter filling the room as we exchange playful jabs and witty quips.
The tension between us simmers, a delicate dance of desire and restraint.
At one point, Myles reaches across the board to capture one of my pieces, brushing against my hand ever so slightly.
The contact ignites a deep, primal urge, reminding me of the passionate kisses we shared.
"Focus, Tristan," I remind myself, shaking off the distraction.
"Did you just talk to yourself?" Myles grins, amused and curious.
"Maybe," I admit with a sheepish smile. "Your move."
As the game goes on, the air between us crackles with more than just friendly competition.
It's clear we're drawn to each other, two magnets unable to resist the pull between them.
My chest tightens, torn between wanting Myles and respecting the fact that last night might have just been an experiment for him.
"Checkmate," Myles declares, his voice tinged with triumph.
"Rematch," I challenge, unable to let him have the last word.
"Bring it on." His eyes sparkle with determination, and all I can think about is how much I want this man—how much I'd like him to be in my life, even if it's platonically.
"Prepare to lose," I taunt, moving a piece with confidence.
"Not today," he replies, matching my intensity.
Game on, Myles, I think, ready to face whatever comes our way.
And so, we continue to play, each move bringing us closer together. The chessboard may separate us for now, but my awareness of him grows stronger with every passing minute.
The room hums with warmth, and the lingering tension from our game of chess gradually dissolves. Myles's laughter fills the space between us, settling deep in my chest like a balm for the soul. I watch the curve of his smile, the way it transforms his expression, and feel a thrill of connection.
"Okay, I'll admit it." I say, leaning back on the couch, my fingers absently tracing the edge of the chessboard. "You're good at this game."
"You're not bad yourself," he says, reaching out and giving my knee an affectionate squeeze. "You had me worried for a minute there, before I was able to pull through."
"Next time, the game is mine to win." And just those words “next time” fills me with hope in the promise that we'll do this again. "But speaking about being worried, what is the thing you worry about the most?"
Stupid question, maybe, but I just want to know about him. He intrigues me.
Myles hesitates, his smile fading as he considers my question.
His eyes, once bright with mirth, now cloud with uncertainty.
And I feel bad for causing him to remember something painful, but before I can open my mouth to apologize, he says, "Coping with losing Cara.
" His voice cracks like the strike of a match.
"And helping Nix deal with his emotions. "
My heart aches for him, for his son, for the pain they're going through. I reach out and touch his hand, offering silent support. The contact sends electricity up my arm, but I push past the distraction and focus on Myles.
"Hey, that's completely understandable," I assure him. "You're doing your best, and that's what matters. You're an incredible father."
"Thanks." He gives me a small, grateful smile, squeezing my hand before letting go.
"And what about you?" Myles asks, shifting the focus onto me. "What do you worry about the most?"
I pause, considering my answer. It's not often I let people in, but with Myles, everything feels different, like we've known each other for years.
"Coping with the emotional toll of witnessing traumatic events," I admit finally.
"The stress that comes with firefighting can be overwhelming at times. "
Myles nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "I can only imagine," he says, reaching out to mirror my earlier gesture, his hand warm and steady on mine.
"Sometimes, it's hard to shake off the memories," I confess, my chest tightening as images of smoke-filled rooms and desperate cries flash through my mind. "But knowing that I'm helping others, making a difference—that keeps me going."
"You're one of the bravest people I know."
His words, so genuine and heartfelt, send warmth flooding through me, chasing away the shadows.
We sit there, hands entwined, our gazes locked, and I feel the magnetic pull between us growing stronger by the second.
The emotional connection is undeniable, wrapping around us like an unbreakable thread.
A charged silence settles between us, and the air crackles with anticipation.
Our faces draw closer, the space between us shrinking until all I can think about is the press of our lips together, the taste of him on my tongue. It's thrilling, intoxicating.
"Can I...?" I trail off, my heart pounding like a drum, drowning out all other thoughts.
I want this so badly, and Myles seems to be on board.
But am I selfishly pursuing my needs at the risk of taking advantage of his vulnerability?
What if this ruins our budding friendship?
What if I fall for him, and then he realizes this was a mistake?
A thousand doubts swarm my mind, but one look into those soulful eyes of his—filled with so much longing and vulnerability—banishes them all.
"Please," he murmurs, giving me the reassurance I need.
Our lips meet softly, tentatively at first—like the brush of butterfly wings against skin. It's electric, igniting a fire within me that burns brighter with every heartbeat. I touch him gently, yet insistently, coaxing him to open up, to allow our connection to deepen.
He obliges, parting his lips and inviting me in, allowing me to take the lead.
The taste of him is intoxicating—a heady blend of warmth and desire that leaves me craving more.
As our kiss intensifies, our tongues dancing together, I'm consumed by the feeling of him: his strong arms around me, the heat radiating from his body, the sound of his ragged breaths intertwining with mine.
"God, Tristan." Myles pants, pulling away just enough to speak but remaining close enough for our breaths to mingle.
Barely giving him time to breathe, I capture his lips again, this time with a newfound urgency.
Our passion surges, unstoppable like a wildfire, fueled by our unspoken desires. I can feel his hunger—his ache for connection—mirrored in my own longing. It's as if we're seeking solace in one another, finding strength in our shared vulnerability.
"Let me take care of you," I whisper against his lips, my hands roaming over his body, tracing the contours of his muscles, committing him to memory.
In this moment, there's nothing but us—our bodies pressed together, our hearts beating in sync, the taste of lust on our lips. A primal urge takes over, driving me to claim him, to make him mine.
MYLES
Tristan fists a hand in my hair and drags my mouth back to his. The kiss is hungry, desperate, like he can't get enough.
Heat pools in my groin and I grind against his hip, swallowing his moan.
"Bed," he gasps, pupils blown wide. "Now."
I don't need to be told twice.