Chapter 6 Liam
Alex was pressed against the tile and I was pressed against Alex and the water was running over both of us and I couldn't think.
Couldn't think about anything except the heat of his body against mine. The way his back arched into me. The sounds he was making—quiet, desperate, muffled against his forearm where he'd braced it against the wall.
My cock was pressed against his ass and I was grinding into him and my hand was wrapped around him and the rhythm was building.
"Liam—fuck—"
"I got you," I whispered against his neck. "I got you."
And then a thought hit me that I wasn't prepared for.
I want to be inside him.
Not someday. Not theoretically. Right now.
The want was so specific it almost hurt—the image of pushing into him, of being that close, of nothing between us at all.
This was new. This was different. This was my body telling me something my brain hadn't caught up to yet.
I didn't act on it. Not here. Not without talking about it first, without knowing if he wanted it too.
But the want was there.
I focused on what we were doing. The rhythm of my hand. The pressure of my hips. Alex's body responding to every movement—his back muscles tensing under my chest, his breath coming in short gasps, the way he pushed back into me like he couldn't get close enough.
"Faster," he whispered.
I tightened my grip. Sped up. Felt his whole body go rigid.
"I'm close," he said. "Liam—I'm—"
"Yes."
His hand slammed against the tile wall. His body locked up—every muscle, every tendon, and I felt him come in my hand. Hot. Pulsing. A sound ripping out of him that he tried to muffle against his arm and couldn't quite kill.
The sound of him—the feeling of him coming apart while I held him—pushed me over the edge.
I pressed my face into the back of his neck and came against him. Hard. My vision whiting out, my hips jerking, my hand still on him as the last waves rolled through us both.
For a long time we just stood there. The water running. Our breathing wrecked. His back against my chest, my forehead against his shoulder, my arm around his waist.
I didn't want to move. Moving meant separating. Separating meant the world came back—the boathouse, the teams, the performance, the coaches, the race. Right now there was nothing except his heartbeat against my chest and the steam and the water and the sound of us breathing together.
I'm not sure how long we stood there.
Alex moved first. Turned around. Faced me.
He looked wrecked. Open. No mask, no composure, no Harrington polish. Just him—hair plastered to his forehead, chest still heaving, eyes that weren't calculating a goddamn thing for once.
He kissed me. Soft.
"That was dangerous," he said.
"Yeah."
"Really dangerous."
"Yeah."
A beat. Water running between us.
"That was also exactly what I needed," he said.
I almost laughed. The relief of hearing him say it—not regret, not panic, not the careful backpedaling.
"Me too," I said.
He studied my face.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. You just—you look different right now."
"Different how?"
"Relaxed." The corner of his mouth pulled up. "It's a good look."
We stood there for another few seconds. And I wanted to say something about what I'd felt—the wanting more, the image that had flashed through my head of being inside him—but the words didn't exist yet.
So instead I said, "Next time I want more of you."
Alex's eyes darkened. He knew what I meant. I could see it, the want echoing back.
"Me too," he said.
Then he leaned into me and pressed his forehead against my chest. Something cracked open in my ribs.
Like a door I didn't know was closed swinging wide.
Nothing had felt this right in a long time.
He kissed my sternum and I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him in, resting my chin on top of his head.
The water cascaded over us for what felt like forever.
"We should get dressed," Alex said.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moved.
"Liam."
"Give me a second."
He looked up at me with those blue eyes. "We've been in here for—"
I pressed my finger to his lips. "I know. Just—one more second."
I couldn't believe it, that I was with him. I couldn't help myself—I wanted to feel his lips one last time, so I kissed him.
Perfect.
Then I turned off the water, and the sudden silence was loud, just the drip from the shower heads and the echo of the drain and our breathing returning to normal.
We grabbed towels from the bench outside the shower area. Dried off. The transition from skin-on-skin to separate bodies felt like losing something. The towel around my waist. The distance returning.
I walked out of the shower area first.
Empty.
The locker room was empty. Benches bare. Lockers shut. No voices, no footsteps, no one sitting in the corner scrolling their phone. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the faint drip of the showers behind us.
We'd gotten away with it.
The relief hit my chest like a physical thing—a loosening, a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. I almost laughed. Alex came out behind me, saw the empty room, and I watched his whole body unclench.
His shoulders dropping. His jaw releasing.
"Jesus," he said.
"Yeah."
We got dressed in silence. But it wasn't the tense silence of performing—it was the buzzing, giddy silence of two people who'd just done something reckless and survived. I caught Alex's eye across the bench and he shook his head slightly, mouth pressed shut against a smile he was trying to kill.
"Don't," I said.
"I'm not."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
"You're definitely smiling."
"Get dressed, Liam."
I pulled my shirt on. Jeans. Shoes. The routine. But my hands were shaking slightly and my skin was still humming and the memory of Alex against the tile.
Alex closed his locker. Turned to me. The smile was gone now, replaced by something steadier.
"We can't do that again," he said. "Not here."
"I know."
"I mean it. The door wasn't locked. Anyone could have walked in."
"I know."
"So we agree. Not here. Not in the boathouse."
"Agreed." I held his gaze. "But somewhere."
Something flickered in his eyes. Want, still. Even now, five minutes after, still.
"Somewhere," he said.
He gave me one last look before he turned toward the door.
"See you later," I said.
He nodded. Walked out. The door swung shut.
I sat on the bench after he left. Alone. My body was still buzzing. The memory of Alex against me—the sounds he'd made, the way he'd pressed back, the way he'd said me too when I told him I wanted more. All of it still alive in my skin.
We'd gotten away with it. This time.
But sitting there in the quiet locker room, the steam thinning, the showers dripping into silence, I knew something had shifted.
Not just between us—in me. The want I'd felt with Alex against the wall wasn't going away.
It was going to get louder. And louder meant riskier, and riskier meant eventually our luck would run out.
Not here. Not in the boathouse.
But somewhere.
The best moment of my life and the most dangerous moment of my life. Same ten minutes. Same room.
I'd do it again. That was the terrifying part. Even knowing the door was unlocked. Even knowing the walls echoed. Even knowing that careful had just failed in the best way possible.
I'd do it again.
I grabbed my bag. Stood up. Walked out of the locker room and out of the boathouse.
The cold hit my face and the world came back—the river, the bridge, the campuses on either side. Kingswell's stone towers to the east. Riverside's brick and concrete to the west. The divide that was supposed to keep us on our own sides.
I headed toward my dorm.
And I didn't look back. Because looking back meant second-guessing, and I was done second-guessing. Whatever Monday brought, whatever the next two weeks demanded—I was in this. All the way in.
Point of no return.
We were in this, together.
And there was no going back.