Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The salt spray is a fine mist on your skin, the only thing that ever really cools the fire in your veins. You paddle out, the familiar grip of waxed fiberglass under your palms, and watch the set roll in, judging the lines, waiting for the one that calls your name. This is your church, your therapy, your home. The ocean is a restless, shifting blue today, and you feel just as restless, just as shifting.

Your gaze drifts to the shore, to the flash of red that’s become a constant, annoying fixture over the last month. The new lifeguard, San. Even from here, you can see the confident set of his shoulders, the way he surveys the water like he owns it. You paddle a little harder, turning your back on the beach. He’s already ruined one good day, you won't let him ruin this one too.

The memory of it flashes, unwanted… three weeks ago, finding your friend, Chloe, slumped against her car, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs you could hear over the crash of the waves.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” you’d asked, voice soft, your hand on her trembling shoulder.
She’d looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, swiping angrily at her tears.
“It’s so stupid. I’m so embarrassed for even crying. I just got overwhelmed.”

It took a few minutes of gentle coaxing before the story tumbled out. How she’d caught a sweet wave, how a swimmer had drifted further out than usual right into her path, how she’d swerved at the last second, almost giving her a heart attack. And how the new lifeguard—San—had, in her words, “yelled at her in front of everyone” for being careless.

“I felt so bad already,” she’d choked out. “I would never… I didn’t even see them until the last second. I was far enough out, I thought it was fine.”
You’d pulled her into a hug, your own anger starting to simmer.
“That’s completely understandable. Swimmers don’t usually go that far out. What an asshole.”

You’d tried to get her back into the water, to not let him win, but you saw the way her confidence, usually so unshakable, had been shattered. To see your fierce friend reduced to this hesitant, apologetic mess by some newbie with a whistle… the simmer in your blood reached a rolling boil. Your infamous temper, the one you’ve spent years trying to leash, snapped its chain.

Before you fully knew what you were doing, you were marching across the burning sand, a storm of righteous fury in a wetsuit. You left your board with Chloe and beelined for the lifeguard station, your temper a red veil over your vision. Then, you saw him. Leaning against the wooden post, one arm hooked casually over a railing. And for one stunning, infuriating second, all the anger rushed out of you, leaving you breathless.

Oh.

The sheer beauty of him was like a physical blow. Sleek black hair pushed back from his gorgeous face, skin gilded by the sun, and a build that looks less like a lifeguard and more like a damn demigod. A body that spoke of hours of real work, not just gym vanity. Strong, roped arms. Shoulders so broad they seem to block out the sun. Abs carved and on blatant display. It was ridiculously, unfairly distracting.

But not distracting enough.

You close the distance, your anger re-igniting with a vengeance. You roughly jab a finger into his shoulder, nearly breaking the digit. The muscle there is like stone but you don’t dare show any of that on your face.
“You. Are you the new lifeguard?” It’s a stupid question, you know every other face on this beach, but it’s your opening shot.

He turns, his dark eyes landing on you followed by a slow, devastatingly charming smile spread across his face. You had this insane and sudden urge to slap it right off his face just so you could think straight again.
“That’s me,” he says, his voice deeper than you expected. “San. How can I help you?”
“Did you just yell at my friend?” you bit out, gesturing vaguely behind you to where Chloe stood, looking small and holding your board.

“Your friend?” He has the audacity to look confused, his brow furrowing slightly.
He either plays dumb or just is dumb. You don’t have the patience to figure out which. “Yeah. Over there. Blonde, looks like she’s been crying because some jerk decided to humiliate her in front of half the beach.” You pointed more emphatically at Chloe, who shrunk even more under the attention. His eyes follow your gesture, a flicker of recognition in them and then… he smirks.

That little quirk of his lips pissed you off more than it should have.
“I spoke to her,” he confirmed, his tone infuriatingly calm. “I didn’t yell. I just made her aware that her careless behavior could have seriously injured someone.”
“Careless?” You scoffed, loud and dismissive. “She’s one of the best surfers out here! Maybe you should be warning the swimmers not to go out so far where the waves break. Ever think of that?”

The scent of salt and sunscreen and San filled your flared nostrils. You didn’t realize how close you’d gotten, leaning into his space, until he took a small, deliberate step back. The smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of genuine shock. You braced for a fight, for him to double down, to be the arrogant jerk you’d already decided he was.

Instead, he did the last thing you expected.

“Whoa, okay. You know what? I didn’t see it that way.” He raised his hands in a gesture of pure surrender. His eyes, a shade of brown you refused to find warm, held yours. “I’m sorry.”
The wind left your sails for a second, leaving you slightly disoriented. An apology? Just like that? Your anger, robbed of its target, sputtered but didn’t die.
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” you muttered, the heat gone from your voice, replaced by a stubborn gruffness.

You turn and wave your friend over. She approaches hesitantly, looking between the two of you like she’s waiting for an explosion. You jerked your chin at San in a clear command while doubling down with a look that said, well? He doesn’t hesitate, turning his full attention to your friend, his expression genuinely contrite.

“I am truly sorry,” he says, his voice softer now. “I came on too strong and I embarrassed you. That wasn’t my intention. My only job is to keep everyone safe.” Then, his eyes flick back to you, holding your gaze for a beat too long. “And I’m sorry to you, too.”
Your friend, the traitor, immediately melts, a fluttering, gracious smile replacing her tears.
“It’s okay, really. Thank you for apologizing.”

You just rolled your eyes, the entire confrontation suddenly feeling very absurd.
“Whatever,” you mumbled under your breath, grabbing Chloe’s arm and turning her firmly toward the water and away from the station. “C’mon. Waves are waiting.”

As you walked away, the image of him and that stupidly perfect face, the easy surrender, the confusing apology, all remained stuck in your head. You didn’t know what to make of it. You didn’t know what any of that was. It felt less like a confrontation and more like you’d thrown a punch at a wall only to have it turn into mist. But one thing is crystal clear, settling in your stomach like a cold, hard rock.

You find the new lifeguard to be incredibly, infuriatingly annoying.

Chapter Text

The next few days did little to cool your temper. San became a constant, prickling presence in your periphery, a thorn you couldn't seem to dislodge. And it seemed the feeling was mutual, like a silent war being fought with glances. You’d feel it first, like a weight on the back of your neck, a prickle of awareness. Without fail, you’d turn around and his eyes would be on you.

And every time he was caught, he’d almost flinch, a subtle but definite reaction before his gaze would snap away and harden into a glare or a scowl, fixed on his annoyingly perfect features. Though, you had to admit, there was never any malice behind his eyes. It was more like he was trying to solve a complex equation written on your skin. It was unnerving, and it irritated the hell out of you.

Chloe, of course, saw it differently. She had her own theories, convinced it was interest, that you piqued his curiosity, or at the very least the man had an innocent crush. You’d just continue to roll your eyes at your friend, sometimes so hard you swear you could see your own brain. Still, she continued to go back and forth with you on the subject.

“He’s totally into you,” she sing-songed, applying more sunscreen.
“Stop trying to piss me off.” You snapped back, no real heat behind your words. “The guy’s always staring at me like he wants to wear my skin. He’s a creep.”
“It’s not creepy, it’s his job to watch the water. You just happen to be on the water. A lot.” She reasoned, her voice laced with amusement. “I suppose you could just stay in denial. Continue to unnecessarily hold your grudge.”

“I don’t even know why you’re defending him! He was a total asshole to you. You should hate him too. Where’s your loyalty?” you grumbled, feeling betrayed.
Chloe just smirked, her eyes drifting toward the lifeguard station.
“I couldn’t stay mad at that handsome face even if I tried.”
“Shut up and get back on your board,” you flicked sand at her with your foot. “Let’s finish surfing before it gets too late.”

She ended up taking off soon after, citing real-world responsibilities you were happy to ignore. You decided to stay out longer, telling her you’d call her later. However the moment she was gone, the feeling returned, it was unmistakable. His gaze was like a laser point burning between your shoulder blades. You refused to turn, refused to acknowledge him. Instead, you paddled out, seeking the only solace you’d ever truly needed, the only thing that could ever silence your mind… the water.

You glided over the swells, your board like a second skin, the ocean an extension of your own pulse. But today, the chaos in your head had a name, and it refused to be silenced. Every crest felt like it carried his scowling face. Every dip was the memory of his stupid, surprised apology. It only fueled your resolve, making you paddle harder, push yourself further.

You caught a decent wave, a beautiful, glassy wall of water. You carved a sharp line down its side with your board, losing yourself in the adrenaline. The world narrowed to the roar of water and the thrill of speed, giving you just what you needed, a momentary escape. Suddenly a flash of colors, neon green and blue, comes into view. A kid on a boogie board, separated from his parent, drifted directly into your path.

You swerved hard, sacrificing the wave to avoid him. The sudden, harsh maneuver threw your balance. Your board shot out from under you, and you were launched over the water, the remainder of the wave crashing down on top of you with brutal force. The world became a churning, violent spin cycle. Something rough scraped against your skin. Saltwater burned your nose and throat. You fought, twisting, trying to find which way was up. You broke the surface, gasping, choking, a ragged, raw sound.

That’s when you felt it, that sharp, stinging pain radiating from your thigh. A fin clip? A rock? You didn't know, but your leg screamed in protest, the saltwater was agony on the open wound. You tried to tread water, but the effort was immense and your leg seized, refusing to cooperate, a dead weight beginning to drag you down. Another wave, smaller but still powerful, rolled over you. You went under again, your arms flailing, your good leg kicking uselessly.

This time, you couldn’t find the surface.

Chapter Text

Panic, cold and absolute, seized you. Your lungs began to burn, fighting for air that wasn't there. Your tired muscles, betrayed by your injured leg, turned to lead. The once beautiful, familiar ocean had turned into a dark, suffocating prison. This is it, a detached part of your brain whispered. This is how it happens. The thought was terrifyingly clear amidst the chaos.

Then, an iron band wrapped around your chest, hauling you backward through the water with impossible strength. You finally broke the surface, finding blinding sunlight with a desperate, ragged gasp, coughing up water. You don't have the capacity for pride or embarrassment. Your fingers dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, your face buried in the crook of his neck, where his skin tastes of salt and sweat and safety.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. You instantly recognized the same sun-tanned skin you’d roughly poked days ago. San held you tightly against his broad chest, his own breathing strained from the effort of keeping you both afloat. “I’ve got you,” his voice was a rough murmur against your ear, devoid of its usual easy charm, replaced by an urgency that left no room for argument. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

The world narrowed to the brutal, throbbing ache in your leg and the solid, unyielding strength of the man carrying you. You were painfully aware of every place your body pressed against his. Your side against his chest, your arm looped around his neck, the way your head had lolled against his shoulder as if it belonged there. His skin was warm and smelled like bergamot and Coppertone.

He didn't put you down until he’d shouldered open the door to the small, shaded lifeguard station and gently set you on the edge of a well-worn wooden table. The cool air inside was a shock against your wet skin. You finally risked a look down at your thigh, and your stomach swooped.

A nasty, ragged cut ran along the outside of your leg, already bruising a deep, angry purple around the edges. The sight of it, the reality of the injury, made the panic you’d been fighting in the water surge back, tightening your throat. You bit the inside of your cheek hard, determined not to let a single tear fall in front of him.

San saw it. Of course he did. His eyes flicked from the wound to your face, and he moved quickly, grabbing the red first aid kit and placing himself directly in your line of sight, blocking the view of your leg.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and steady, pulling your focus to him. He popped the latches on the kit. “I’m gonna get you cleaned up. You’ll be good as new in no time, okay?”

You just nodded, your jaw clenched too tight to speak. You hated this. Hated the vulnerability, the way you must look right now. Pale, shaky, weak. Especially in front of him. He knelt in front of you, filling the space between your knees, and uncapped a bottle of antiseptic.
“Alright, this might sting a little—” he warns.

His words are a fraction of a second too late. The cold, burning contact is instant and vicious. A shocked, pained gasp tore from your throat and your hand flew out on pure instinct, smacking his bicep hard.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, the pain sharpening your words to a fine point. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to warn a person before the stinging part?”

You took a deep, shuddering breath, the echo of your own yell ringing in your ears. Horror dawned as you realized what you’d just done. You’d yelled at and physically assaulted the man who had just fished you out of the ocean and was now trying to patch you up. You braced yourself for his anger, for the well-deserved attitude that was sure to come your way.

But when you finally meet his eyes, he isn’t angry. He isn’t even annoyed. He’s looking at you with something like... awe. His dark eyes are wide, fixed on you as if you’ve just performed a magic trick, and it completely disarms you.
“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, your voice losing its edge, becoming small and uncertain. “That was… I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

“It's okay,” he interrupts, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He rubs the spot on his arm where you hit him. “You're really strong.”
The compliment was so bizarre, so out of place, that a reflexive, confused smile touches your own lips before you can stop it.

He got back to work, leaning in closer to your thigh to dab more carefully at the cut. His focus was absolute, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then his hand slipped, pressing a little too hard on the bruised flesh. You flinched violently, a hiss of pain escaping you. Your hand flew up again, a purely defensive reaction, but you caught yourself this time, fingers curling into a fist mid-air before it could connect.

At this rate, you wouldn’t blame San if he wanted to throw you right back into the ocean for being so difficult. You prepared yourself for annoyance or irritation. Anything but the look he gave you. His eyes shot up to yours, and there was no anger there. Instead, there was a flicker of something eager, almost… excitement? It was discombobulating. You couldn't read him at all, and it was infuriating.

“Be more careful,” you scolded, your voice tight, using the frustration to cover your confusion.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice hushed. He worked with renewed gentleness, efficiently cleaning and dressing the wound with a practiced hand until it was neatly bandaged.

The moment he was done, you pushed yourself off the table, determined to prove your independence. Your injured leg buckled instantly, sending a fresh wave of hot pain up your side. You would have crumpled if San hadn’t surged forward, his hands catching you under your elbows, holding you steady. You let out a frustrated, defeated huff, your head bowing. You were trapped.

“My shift is over,” San said, his voice gentle. “Let me take you home.”
“It’s really not necessary,” you protested weakly, even as your leg throbbed in agreement with his offer.
“You can’t walk,” he stated, no judgment in his tone, just fact. “And your friend is gone. Please. Let me help.”

The thought of being reliant on him, of sitting in a confined car with this confusing, exasperatingly handsome man, was its own special kind of agony. But the alternative was hobbling alone through the sand until you found a cab, and your pride wasn't that strong. With immense reluctance, you nodded, avoiding his eyes.

“Fine. Okay. Thank you.” The words tasted foreign.
A small, triumphant smile played on his lips as he carefully helped you balance, his grip firm and sure around your waist.
“My car is just over here.”

Chapter Text

The ride to your apartment was a blur of tension and the low hum of the radio. San was impossibly careful helping you out of the passenger seat, offering his arm as a crutch as you hobbled your way to your door. His touch was firm and steady, like a silent promise that he wouldn’t let you fall. Once inside, he didn’t just dump you on the couch and leave. He helped you settle against the cushions, his eyes scanning the room with his usual lifeguard assessing gaze. It was then he noticed the way you were subtly favoring one ankle over the other, the slight wince you couldn't quite hide.

“Your ankle,” he said, his voice low with concern.
Before you could brush it off, he was kneeling in front of you, his strong and capable hands began gently probing the swelling. His touch was clinical yet infinitely careful.
“It’s a little banged up,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “You must have twisted it in the tumble. I’ll take care of it now but you should still see your doctor in the morning.”

He began moving with a quiet efficiency that was mesmerizing. He found a spare pillow in your bedroom to elevate your foot, wrapped a bag of frozen peas in a dish towel, and fetched a glass of water and painkillers from your kitchen for your thigh. He did it all without being asked, a silent, competent force of nature in your space. Once you were propped up and iced, a strange sort of calm settled over you. The adrenaline had truly faded, leaving you exhausted and, despite yourself, deeply grateful.

“Thank you,” you said, the words feeling inadequate but sincere. “For... all of it. Really.”
He gave a small, dismissive nod, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“It’s my job.” The words were automatic, but the softness in his eyes suggested it was more than that. An awkward silence descended. “Well... I should probably…” He gestured vaguely toward the door.

Relief and a strange, sharp disappointment warred within you.
“Right. Yeah. I’ll be fine. You can see yourself out.”
He hesitated, lingering by the arm of your couch.
“Are you hungry?” he asked suddenly, the question seeming to surprise even him.
As if on cue, your stomach chose that moment to emit a loud, prolonged growl.
“It’s fine. You can go.” You muttered, brushing off residual embarrassment.

But he didn't move.

“I’ll leave right after I make you something. Only if it’s okay with you.”
He said it so earnestly, treating the act of feeding you like a privilege you were granting him. You already felt idiotic enough for one day and the idea of trying to hop around your kitchen on one leg was deeply unappealing. With a resigned sigh, you nodded.
“Fine. Okay.”
“Thank you,” he said, a small, genuine smile touched his lips, as if you’d done him the favor, before disappearing into your kitchen.

You put on a mindless movie and shot a quick text to Chloe, briefly explaining the disaster and the unexpected rescue. Her reply was a string of wide-eyed emojis and a promise to call later. San returned shortly with a tray carrying two steaming bowls of simple noodles he’d doctored up from your pantry. He carefully laid a napkin over your lap, handed you a bowl, and then, instead of leaving, he sat on the far end of the couch by your elevated foot, balancing his own bowl.

You’d assumed he’d just hand you the food and go. But you weren’t cruel. He’d saved your life, took you home, tended to your injuries, and now cooked for you. Throwing him out felt monstrous. And if you were honest, a small, secret part of you was glad for the company. And with every passing minute, the image of the arrogant, smirking lifeguard you’d confronted on the beach blurred, replaced by the quiet, considerate man sitting on your couch, careful not to jostle your injured ankle.

The silence after the movie credits rolled was comfortable, filled with the lingering warmth of shared noodles and easy conversation. You watched as San gathered your empty bowls, his movements orderly and quiet. He didn’t just leave them in the sink. He washed them, his broad back to you as he scrubbed, the muscles in his shoulders shifting under his t-shirt.

A fresh wave of guilt washed over you. He was going above and beyond for someone who had done nothing but snipe at him since the day you two met. He had no reason to try to win your favor, and yet here he was, doing exactly that. By the time he finished drying the last dish and putting it away, your earlier anger felt like a distant, foolish memory. You couldn’t have been more wrong about him. He wasn’t the patronizing jerk you’d painted him to be. He was… kind. And you had been, without a doubt, a complete bitch.

He lingered by the kitchen doorway, his gaze drifting to your elevated ankle.
“Do you need anything else before I go?”
Since it wasn’t that late, and the idea of him leaving suddenly felt… disappointing, you found yourself speaking.
“You could… stay for another movie? If you want. I’m not much of a hostess like this,” you gestured to your propped-up leg, “but it’s the least I can do to thank you for everything today.”

His face transformed. A wide, genuine smile broke out, and two heart-stoppingly adorable dimples appeared on his cheeks. How had you never noticed those before? The sight of them sent a strange, fluttery feeling straight to your stomach, making you want to reach out and poke one.
“I’d like that,” he said, his voice warm as he settled back on the opposite end of the couch.

The next movie started, but this time you couldn’t focus. Your eyes kept drifting from the screen to the man beside you. You traced the strong line of his profile, the perfect slope of his nose, the way his silky black hair fell across his forehead. You were so lost in admiring him that you didn’t realize he’d caught you until his eyes suddenly met yours. You flinched, quickly snapping your gaze down to your ankle as if you’d been studying it with intense fascination. Your cheeks began to burn.

“Everything okay? Is your ankle bothering you?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.
“It’s just a little tender,” you mumbled, refusing to look up. The heat in your face was unbearable. He was being so nice, so endearingly worried, and now you were the one ogling him like some creep.
“Hold on,” he said, already getting up. “I have something in my car that might help.” He was back in a flash with a small tube of ointment. “This stuff works wonders. May I?”

You nodded, your throat tight. He sat closer this time, carefully lifting your ankle and placing it in his lap. His touch was incredibly gentle as he smoothed the cool cream over your skin, his thumbs massaging the tender area in slow, soothing circles. The pain began to ebb almost immediately, replaced by a different kind of warmth that spread up your leg.

In the quiet intimacy of the moment, you really let yourself look at him this time. He was beautiful. Truly, breathtakingly beautiful. His bone structure was perfect, his cheekbones high and sharp, his lashes impossibly long. You wondered what that silky hair would feel like between your fingers. You were so engrossed you didn’t realize you were staring again until his eyes lifted and locked with yours. Concern plastered all over his features.

“You’re all flushed,” he said softly, his brows drawing together. “Is it throbbing?”
The concern in his voice was so genuine, so sweet, but it only amplified your embarrassment. He thought you were in agony. He had no idea you were just flustered by his proximity, by his stupidly perfect face. The humiliation curdled instantly into something defensive and familiar. Anger was easier than admitting the truth.

“I’m fine,” you snapped, the words coming out harsher than intended. “Don’t be so rough.”
The silence that follows is heavier than any scolding could ever be. You could feel all the progress you had made over the past couple hours slipping through your fingers. Your anger quickly evaporated, leaving behind a cold, clammy feeling of guilt once again.

You watch him, this man built of strength and quiet grace, now looking utterly diminished. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed. The blush staining his cheeks seems less like embarrassment now and more like a brand of shame. He just sits there, his hands resting limply on his knees after having ever so carefully lowered your ankle back to his lap. The act was one of pure tenderness, a stark contrast to your harsh, unfounded attitude.

“Shit. I didn’t mean that. I just…” You say, your voice soft, the edge completely gone. “San, can you look at me?”
He doesn't. He shakes his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. His eyes remain squeezed shut, as if by not seeing you, he can somehow disappear from this moment, from your disapproval.

The sight cracks something open inside you. This isn’t the reaction of someone who is annoyed or defensive. This is the reaction of someone who is genuinely... hurt. You shift in your seat, not to get away, but to try and see his face. The movement makes him flinch, a quick, involuntary tightening of his muscles.
“San,” you whisper, the name a plea. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You weren’t rough at all. You’re never rough with me.”

He lets out a shaky breath, but his eyes remain closed. His hands curl into loose fists on his knees. The air between you two is thick with everything that’s been misread and everything left unsaid. He’s perfectly, almost painfully still, holding himself in check, a statue of silent mortification.

You’re left staring at the top of his bowed head, wondering how your own uneasiness caused this, and what, exactly, is causing the faint tremor you can feel running through him. Your own embarrassment begins to recede, replaced by a dawning, bewildering understanding. This isn’t the reaction of someone who’s just been unfairly chastised. This is something else entirely. Your eyes, wide and unblinking, snapped from his mortified face down to his lap, where your foot is perched on his now very obvious, undeniable erection.

Your mind races, replaying the last few minutes through this new, shocking lens. His blush wasn’t from your scolding. His inability to meet your eyes wasn’t from shame over his imagined roughness. The way he squeezed his eyes shut, the strangled sound in his throat… it wasn’t pain or sadness. It was a desperate attempt to control a reaction he clearly didn’t want you to see.

He’s rigid beneath your foot, every muscle in his body locked in a battle between staying perfectly still and giving in to the instinct to flee. But he can’t flee. He’s trapped by your injured leg, by his own sense of duty, and now by your accidental discovery. A dozen questions crash through your mind, but one screams the loudest, echoing your own stunned thoughts… What in the world would turn him on from getting yelled at, from being scolded?

The answer, terrifying and electrifying, begins to take shape in the silence. The way he’d apologized so earnestly, so submissively. The way your anger had rolled over him. He hadn’t fought back once, he’d surrendered to it immediately. And it had… affected him. Your harsh tone, your defensive attitude—it hadn’t pushed him away. It had done the opposite.

You watch him, truly look at him now. His jaw is clenched, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. A faint tremor continuously runs through the thigh beneath your calf. He is the picture of utter suppression. This strong, gentle man who could probably break a door with his fist is rendered completely helpless by your accidental touch and his own body’s betrayal.

The anger you were clinging to evaporates, leaving behind a strange, shaky curiosity. Your voice, when you finally find it, is barely a whisper, all the previous heat gone. “San…?”
His eyes fly open at the sound of his name, but they don’t meet yours. They’re wide, dark with a mixture of panic and something else, something heated.
“I’m—” His voice cracks. “I am so sorry. I didn’t— I can’t—”

He starts to move, to carefully lift your leg, his movements jerky with panic. Without thinking, you press your foot down, just slightly. A silent plea for him to stop, to not run. The action makes him gasp, a sharp, choked sound, and he freezes again, his eyes finally snapping up to yours. The look in them is raw, unguarded, and utterly devastating.

You see it all there. The shame, the fear of your disgust, and beneath it, a flicker of desperate want that he has no idea how to hide anymore. The dynamic has shifted entirely. You are no longer the injured party scolding her careless caretaker. You are holding something fragile and secret in your hands—or rather, under your foot—and the power of it is dizzying.

Chapter Text

The air is so thick you could choke on it. The silence that follows is different now. It’s warm and heavy with a shared secret. Your foot remains exactly where it is, a deliberate, impossible to ignore weight on the hard length of him. You watch the play of emotions across his face. The terror, the shame, the desperate hope in his eyes. He's a rigid coil of nervous energy. He lets out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction.

You can already see him closing in on himself, retreating back into a shell that you weren’t even aware was there before. A new surge of desperation pushes through your veins, foreign to you. You want him to stay. You want to dive deeper into whatever it is that's happening, you’re just not quite sure how to bridge the gap and the longer you sit in silence, the more tense San becomes.

“San. I’m uncomfortable.” You speak, forcing confidence into your demeanor.
You can see San begin to spin out, the way he nervously fidgets, like he’s unsure what to do or what to say.
“I-I am so s-sorry, Y/N. I never—” He stutters out an apology, assuming he’s the cause of your discomfort.
You opt for some light teasing, that seems like the least risky option for exploring this new territory you're both in.

“What are you sorry about? Did you personally stuff a mountain of sand between my tits?” Your tone teeters between sincerity and sarcasm.
“What? M-me? No I swear I didn’t—” San sputters out quickly, using all his focus not to stare directly at your chest.
“Obviously. Help me to the bath so I can wash the ocean off me.” You gently demand.
“Bath?” He mutters, reduced to one word.
“Yeah. You don’t seriously expect me to be able to get comfortable when I’m still covered in sand, do you?”

Clarity, serene and beautiful, shines through San’s expression. He lets out a breath you weren’t aware he was holding, his shoulders relaxing with the newfound relief that his inappropriate erection is not the source of your discomfort. It’s merely the residual sand that has been clinging to your body for the better half of the day. However the realization of your request dawns on him, leaving him tensing again.

“Right.” He breathes out, the word more to himself than you. “Let’s… let’s get you to the bath.”
He leans down, his movements slow and telegraphic, giving you every opportunity to stop him. His arms slide under you, one behind your back, the other under your knees, and he lifts you from the couch with ease. You watch him closely, paying attention to every twitch of his muscles, every bob of his adam’s apple, listening to the queues his body gives you, the information his posture subconscious provides.

Still, you remain hyper-aware of the heat of his skin through his thin shirt, the solid strength of his arms, the way he holds you carefully against his chest, deliberately avoiding putting pressure on your injured leg. He carries you the short distance to the bathroom, his breath warm against your hair. He doesn’t speak. The only sounds are his soft footsteps and the ragged edge of his breathing.

He sets you down on the closed lid of the toilet, your foot resting on the cool tile floor. The bathroom is small, making the space feel even more intimate, a private world enclosed in glass and tile. San straightens up, but he doesn’t retreat to the door. He stands waiting, his back to the sink, his gaze fixed on you. The question is clear in his eyes. What now? The control is intoxicating. You hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting him wonder, letting him sweat.

“Well?” you say, your voice a low, cool murmur that seems to vibrate in the cool air. “Are you just going to stand there? The tub isn’t going to fill itself.”
The spell breaks.
“Oh! Of course!” San nearly shouts, the words bursting from him as he instantly drops to his knees beside the tub.

He fumbles with the taps for a moment, his large hands surprisingly deft as he adjusts the temperature. He doesn’t stop there. Without being asked, he finds your bottle of bubble bath, quickly skims the instructions, and pours a generous amount under the stream of water. The act is so thoughtful, so domestic, it makes your chest feel tight. As the tub fills with fragrant suds, he rises, wiping his hands on his shorts. He can’t quite look at you.

“I— I can step outside,” he stammers, his voice hoarse. “Just call if you need—”
“That won’t work,” you interrupt, your tone leaving no room for argument. You gesture vaguely at your banged-up ankle. “I need you in here. In case I slip. Or do your rescue efforts only extend to the beach?”
“Right,” he says, the word a rough scrape of sound. “Your ankle. I... I wasn’t thinking.” He kneels again to turn off the water, the surface now a cloud of iridescent bubbles.

You watch him, this powerful man brought to his knees by your words. The dynamic is fragile, thrilling, and dangerously new. You need to be sure.

“San,” you say, your voice softer now, losing its edge of command. “Look at me.” His eyes snap to yours, wide and earnest. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” he states immediately, his tone matching your seriousness. “You can ask me anything.”

You take a steadying breath.
“This,” you say, a single word that encompasses the charged silence, his obvious arousal, your orders, his kneeling submission. “Is this okay?” The blush on his face deepens, but you press on. “I need you to tell me now if you’re uncomfortable. This stops the second you say so.”

The relief that floods his expression is so profound it’s almost heartbreaking. It’s as if you’ve handed him a key to a lock he didn’t know he carried. He lets out a shaky exhale, his shoulders slumping.

“Thank you,” he breathes, the words thick with emotion. “Thank you for asking. For caring.”
A genuine smile touches your lips.
“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency. But you do have to answer. Is this what you want? To be like this? With me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. He shakes his head, a lock of his silky black hair falling across his forehead.

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice raw and stripped bare. “More than anything.” Still on his knees, he shifts so he’s facing you directly, a supplicant at your feet.
He goes perfectly still for a moment, the honesty of his admission hanging between you. Then, slowly, he turns his head and rests his cheek against your good thigh. He looks up at you, his eyes dark, glassy with unshed tears and a reverence that makes your breath catch.

“I want,” he whispers, his voice cracking, “to be good for you. However you see fit.”
The stark vulnerability in his confession is staggering. It fills the small room, pushing out the last remnants of awkwardness. The sight of him… this strong, beautiful man on his knees, his head in your lap, his body… it’s the most beautiful and powerful thing you have ever witnessed.

Tentatively, you reach out. Your fingers begin a gentle journey through his hair, combing through the soft strands. With every pass of your nails against his scalp, you feel him melt. A low, broken groan vibrates against your thigh, and his entire body goes lax against you. He is putty in your hands, utterly at your mercy, and the knowledge is a heady, surreal rush.

“You’re already being so good for me,” you murmur, your voice a soft, approving whisper. The praise makes him shudder violently. He nuzzles instinctively against your leg, a silent, needy plea for more. His hands, which had been resting on his own thighs, clench into white-knuckled fists. You let the moment stretch, savoring the feel of his complete submission, before you give the next gentle command. “Now,” you say, your voice regaining its quiet authority. “Help me up. I need to undress.”

Chapter Text

You watch San as he stands by the sink, his eyes shut tightly, patiently waiting for your next order. Thoughtlessly, your mind drifts back to the start of your day. To when he was still just the irritating lifeguard who yelled at your friend and took up too much space at your favorite beach. Not once had you ever envisioned a scenario like this one.

“Okay,” you say, your voice softer now. “Put out your hand.”

He does so immediately, his arm extending toward you blindly, his palm open and waiting. You place your hand in his. His fingers are warm and slightly calloused from his work, and they close around yours with a gentle firmness that sends a jolt straight through you. With his support, you carefully maneuver your injured leg over the side and sink into the welcoming warmth of the water with a soft sigh.

He pivots on his heel to face the door, his broad back now to you. Only then does he let his eyes flutter open. You lean back against the cool porcelain of the tub, observing him. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself perfectly still, giving you his complete, unquestioning compliance. The trust is absolute, and it makes something fuzzy and powerful uncurl deep within you.

The steam rises into the air as you begin to relax. The only sound is the gentle splash of water as you sink deeper into the tub, the warm water a relief on your sore muscles. You can’t stop watching him. The way his hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides, the faint tremor you can see running through his bicep.

“You can talk, you know,” you say, your voice echoing softly off the tiled walls. “I didn’t tell you to be silent.”
He lets out a breath that’s almost a gasp, as if he’d been holding it this whole time.
“Right. Sorry.” His voice is strained.
You smile, lathering soap onto a washcloth.
“What are you thinking about, San?”

He goes perfectly still again. You can practically hear the frantic race of his thoughts. “I’m… thinking about making sure you don’t slip,” he manages, the words tight. “Making sure you’re safe.”
It’s such a dutiful, lifeguard answer. So noble. And definitely not the truth.
“Sure you are,” you say teasingly, dragging the cloth over your shoulders.

He flinches as if you’d flicked water at him. A low, helpless sound escapes him, something between a groan and a sigh.
“Please,” he whispers, the word barely audible over the water.
It’s not a plea for you to stop. It’s a surrender to whatever you’re going to do next.
“Please, what?” you ask, your tone light and curious.

You dip the cloth in the water and let it drip noisily back into the tub. He shakes his head, his knuckles white where he’s now tightly clenching his fist.
“I don’t know. I just… please.”
You let the silence draw out, enjoying the way the tension coils tighter with every passing second. This is a different kind of power than anger. It’s slower and sweeter.

“You said you’d be good,” you firmly remind him, your voice dropping to a murmur. “You said you’d obey. Is this what being good feels like, San? Standing there, trembling, because you can hear me bathing behind you?”
A full-body shudder wracks his frame. He nods, his head bowing.
“Yes,” he chokes out. “It’s… it’s exactly what it feels like.”

The raw honesty in his voice steals your breath. You’d been teasing, testing the boundaries of this dynamic he’d so clearly offered you. But his answer… it didn’t just feel like compliance this time. It felt like devotion. The water sloshes as you shift, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.

“I’m almost finished,” you say, your own voice a little unsteady now. “You’ve been very good. My good little lifeguard.”
The praise hits him like a physical blow. He sags, his forehead resting against the door, a broken, grateful sound escaping his lips.
“Thank you,” he breathes, as if you’d given him a priceless gift.

You finish washing quickly, the game suddenly feeling too real, too intense.
“Okay,” you say, your voice returning to a more normal tone. “You can turn around now. Eyes closed. I need your help getting out.”

He turns immediately, his eyes screwed painfully shut, his face a mask of exquisite tension. He holds out his hands blindly, and you place your wet ones in his. His grip is firm, he helps you rise from the water with a careful strength that makes your heart swell. He doesn’t peek. Not once. He just helps you step onto the bath mat and immediately wraps a large, fluffy towel around your shoulders, his movements are efficient and respectful, even with his eyes closed.

But as his hands brush your bare shoulders to secure the towel, they linger for a fraction of a second. A barely-there touch, but it says everything. He’s still trembling. And in that tiny, fleeting moment, you truly understand. For San, being good, being obedient to you… it’s the biggest thrill of all. You fire off another command, and watch bliss overtake San’s features as he springs into action, carrying you to your bed.

Once you were situated, you told San to take a shower and to put both your clothes to wash, giving you some time alone to gather your thoughts, decide what happens next. While you were fully prepared to explain the reasoning behind your seemingly odd request, that he was also covered in the ocean, that you didn’t want him leaving sand everywhere, San didn’t question it. He simply gathered your clothes, located the wash, grabbed a clean towel, and that was that.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence he leaves in his wake is immediately filled by the frantic buzzing of your phone. Chloe’s name flashes on the screen. You snatch it up, pressing it to your ear as you toss your towel aside, opting for the thin robe you’d left at the foot of your bed this morning.

“Y/N! Why haven’t you been answering your phone! Do you know how wor—”
“Chloe, stop talking,” you cut her off, your voice a hushed whisper even though he’s in the other room.
“Rude.” She huffs. “After I so graciously—”
“I have limited time,” you hiss, cutting her off again. “San is currently showering. In my bathroom.”

The screech that erupts from the phone is so high-pitched you have to hold it away from your ear.

“I KNEW IT! I WAS RIGHT! I TOLD YOU! I—”
“Shut up!” you command, a desperate laugh bubbling in your chest despite yourself. “We haven’t done anything yet.”
It’s like you haven’t even spoken. She’s already planning the wedding.
“Oh my god, is he a good kisser? He looks like he’d be a good kisser. Those lips! And the dimples! And the—”

The distinct sound of the shower shutting off cuts through her giddy rambling. Your heart lurches into your throat.
“I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Details! I want all the—”
You end the call before she can finish, tossing the phone onto the nightstand as if it’s on fire.

You scramble, pushing yourself back across the comforter until your back meets the mountain of pillows you’d piled up earlier. You just barely have time to smooth the front of your robe and to arrange your expression into something resembling cool composure, when the door opens. San stands in the doorway, haloed by the light coming from behind him. And your carefully constructed composure shatters.

Chapter Text

He’s wearing nothing but a simple white towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets cling to the defined planes of his chest and stomach. His black hair is wet and messy, pushed away from his forehead, making his eyes seem even darker, his cheekbones even more pronounced. The towel does little to hide the powerful cut of his hips or the solid strength of his thighs.

He looks absolutely edible. And utterly unsure of what to do next. He hovers in the doorway, one hand on the frame, his gaze fixed on you. The obedience is still there in his posture, the willingness to please, but it’s layered with a new, raw vulnerability. He’s in your space, nearly naked, following your orders, and waiting for the next one. His eyes travel over you, from your damp hair to the robe tied securely at your waist, and a fresh blush creeps up his neck. He’s completely exposed, and he’s putting himself entirely at your mercy.

“You… you told me to shower,” he says, his voice a little rough, as if reminding himself as much as you.
“I did,” you confirm, your own voice thankfully steady. You place your hand down in the space on the bed in front of you. “Come here.”

He moves then, crossing the room with a quiet grace that belies his size. The mattress dips under his weight as he sits on the edge you indicated, careful to keep a respectful few inches between you. He smells like your soap and shampoo, a clean, familiar scent that is now inextricably linked to him. He keeps his eyes downcast, focused on his own hands clasped in his lap, the picture of devout patience.

The dynamics have shifted once again, bewildering you. This isn’t the annoying lifeguard from the beach or even the flustered boy from your couch. This is a man who has chosen to submit, and the quiet intensity of his submission is more compelling than any argument could ever be. You reach out, and before you can second guess yourself, you run your fingertips over the damp skin of his shoulder. He shivers at the contact, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut for a second, as if absorbing the sensation.

“You listened perfectly,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone.
A shuddering sigh escapes him. He turns his head just enough to press his lips against your wandering fingertips in a kiss so soft it’s barely there.
“I want to,” he whispers against your skin, his voice thick with an emotion that makes your chest ache. “I want to show you how good I can be for you.”

You pat your lap, a silent command that feels more like an offering. The smile that spreads across his face is instantaneous and devastating. It’s not the false, practiced smirk from the lifeguard stand. This is pure, unfiltered joy, so bright it makes his eyes crinkle into happy little crescent moons.

He moves with a careful reverence, slowly leaning forward, one hand subtly ensuring the towel stays knotted at his hip. He doesn’t sprawl or take up space. Instead, he curls himself, fitting his form along your good leg and gently rests the weight of his head on your lap. He nuzzles against your robe with a contented sigh that vibrates through the fabric, the picture of a giant, satisfied cat. The endearing simplicity of the gesture makes your heart ache.

You let your fingers card through his damp hair, the strands silky against your skin. Then he speaks, his voice muffled slightly by your thigh, but every word clear and weighted with sincerity.

“I think you’re amazing.” He takes a shaky breath. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind, not since that first day on the beach. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. The most confident. It’s like you know exactly who you are, and you’re not afraid of anything.” His confession hangs in the air. You smile, a real, unguarded smile he can’t even see. “Do you like me too?” he asks, the question timid, yet hopeful.

You take a deep breath. Honesty. It has to be honesty.
“I suppose I do now but up until a few hours ago,” you admit, your tone wry, “I thought you were just another handsome, smug asshole on the beach.”
A surprised giggle bursts from him, the sound warm and rich against your leg. You feel him shake with it.
“What’s so funny?” you ask, scratching his scalp lightly.

He blushes, turning his face to hide in your thigh. The movement, the feel of his hot cheek against you, sends a flush of your own heat across your skin. He mumbles something incoherent.
“What was that?” you prompt, your voice teasing.
He peeks one eye open to look up at you.
“You think I’m handsome,” he says, the words filled with a kind of wondrous disbelief.

You can’t help but laugh.
“That’s what you took from that? I also called you an asshole, San. Surely you’ve been told you’re handsome plenty of times.”
He shakes his head, the movement rustling against your robe. His voice is a soft, embarrassed mumble.
“Not by someone like you.”
“What does that mean?” you ask, genuinely curious.

He’s silent for a moment, like he’s trying to find the right words to explain himself.
“Most people I’ve been with,” he begins haltingly, “they... they want me to be the aggressor. They want me to be rough. To toss them around. To take charge.” He takes a deep breath, his confession feeling monumental. “But that’s not... it’s not what l want. You... you saw it. You just knew. Without me having to say anything. You just… took control.”

The pieces click into place with finality. His immediate surrender on the beach, his flustered obedience in your bathroom, the way he melted under a simple praise. It wasn’t just shock or politeness. It was a deep, fundamental need finally being met.
“Well,” you say, your voice dropping to a playful, threatening purr. “If you ever tried to toss me around, just know l’d have to tie you down and flog you for being so presumptuous.”

The effect is immediate and electric. A full body shudder wracks his frame, a low, helpless groan escaping his lips. He presses his face harder against your leg, but he’s not hiding in shame. The tension thrumming through him is one of pure, unadulterated anticipation. The air in your bedroom is no longer just warm, it's electric and charged with a hunger so potent it feels like a living thing. You can no longer just sit still. It’s up to you to get this started.

“San, get the lotion from my nightstand,” you instruct, your voice low and steady. “My legs need to be moisturized.”
He moves instantly. The cap clicks open, and a moment later, his warm, lotion-slicked hands are on your skin. He starts at your ankle, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so strong, working his way up your calf with slow, circular motions.

His head is bowed, his focus entirely on his task, as if anointing you is the most important job in the world. His knees dip into the mattress, anchoring him there, at your feet. When he's finished, his hands come to rest lightly on your shins. He looks up, his dark eyes searching yours.

“What else can I do for you?”
The question is a whisper, filled with a mixture of reverence and desperate anticipation. You take a slow breath, mustering every ounce of confidence you possess. This is the point of no return.
“Drop your towel.”

Chapter Text

For a heartbeat, he’s utterly still, processing, making sure he heard you correctly. When he doesn’t move, you offer him an out, a reminder of your sacred rule.
“You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
He blinks rapidly, shaking his head as if to clear it.
“It’s not that,” he breathes, his voice husky. “I just... I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not.”

And then, without another second of hesitation, he hooks his thumbs into the towel tied at his hips and gives a small tug, the soft material falls away as he sits back on his heels, fully exposed to you, his erection standing hard and flushed against his stomach. He waits, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.

“Touch yourself.”

His hand drags up his own thigh, a slow, intentional movement, before wrapping around his length. He lets out a shaky sigh as he begins to stroke himself, his eyes locked on yours. A profound blush spreads across his chest, up his neck, painting his beautiful face a deep, rosy red. The sight is utterly mesmerizing, his powerful body yielding to your command, pleasuring himself for your enjoyment, and his.

But watching is no longer enough.
Carefully, you lift your good leg, bending your knee and planting your foot on the mattress.

The movement spreads your legs, opening yourself to him completely. The sight of your slick, glistening core nearly undoes him. His rhythm stutters, his hips giving an aborted thrust into his fist, and he looks like he might tip over. You snap your fingers sharply. The sound jolts him. He catches himself, his eyes widening, and he resumes his slow, torturous strokes, his gaze now fixated between your legs.

You bring your own fingers to your core, circling your clit with a slow, teasing pressure that makes you gasp softly. His jaw drops open, a low groan tearing from his throat. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you can see the pure, starving want in his eyes. You feel the delicious tension coiling tight within you, and you know he’s right on the edge. You stop your own movements abruptly.

“Don’t come yet,” you order, your voice firm.
He whimpers, a desperate, broken sound, but he obeys, slowing his hand to a glacial, agonizing pace, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. You withdraw your glistening fingers and hold them out to him. His eyes are wild, glued to your hand.

“Do you want a taste?”
He nods, his head bobbing vigorously, unable to form words. You lean forward slightly, and with a touch as gentle as a whisper, you swipe your wet fingers across his bottom lip.
“Now,” you command, your voice dropping to a husky whisper. The word is the permission he’s been desperately waiting for. His undoing.

His tongue darts out to capture your taste, and as he does, his orgasm crashes over him with a force that surprises even him. His back stiffens, a guttural, choked cry ripping from his throat. His hand works him through it, his whole frame shuddering with each pulse, his release striping across his stomach and fist, still wrapped around his cock.

He finishes riding it out with a series of broken whimpers and gasping moans, his head dropping forward as the last tremors wrack his body, going slack as he slumps forward, catching himself on one hand. He stays put for a long moment, bowed before you, trembling and spent.

The room is silent except for the sound of his labored breathing. He has never looked more beautiful to you. You watch him, his chest still rising and falling with the aftershocks of his climax, as he cleans himself with a quiet, focused efficiency. He is all graceful movement and careful strength, even in this simple act.

Then he freezes. His eyes, dark and still hazy with pleasure, lock on your thigh. A faint, milky pearlescent streak glistens against your skin. A mark of his loss of control.

“Oh God, Y/N, I’m so sorry,” he stammers, his voice rough.
He moves quickly, turning to retrieve the discarded towel, his body tensed with a fresh wave of embarrassment. Your hand shoots out, your fingers wrapping around the solid curve of his bicep. The muscle is like iron beneath his warm, damp skin.

You feel him freeze instantly under your touch, every ounce of his attention snapping back to you. He waits, his breath held. You look from the evidence of his passion on your leg back to his mortified face. A slow, wicked smile plays on your lips.
“Be a good kitty,” you murmur, your voice a low, silken command. “And clean it off.”

Confusion flickers in his eyes for a heartbeat. He was going for the towel. You stopped him. Then, understanding washes over his features in a wave of shock, then dawning heat. His gaze drops to your thigh, then flicks back to your face, seeking confirmation. You simply raise an eyebrow, leaning back against the pillows in a clear gesture of expectation.

What happens next is a thing of beauty. He moves with a new kind of grace, sinking to his knees between your legs with a fluidity that is almost feline, working to live up to the earned pet name. He doesn’t break eye contact as he lowers his head, placing a soft, almost chaste kiss high on your thigh. Then another, a fraction lower. His lips are warm and impossibly soft. Each kiss is an apology for his mess.

He reaches the spot. His tongue, hot and wet, darts out. The first lick is tentative, a quick, cat-like swipe that sends a jolt straight through your core. You bite your lip, fighting back a moan. Emboldened by your sharp intake of breath, he does it again, slower this time, lapping at your skin with a deliberate, cleaning stroke.

Then he closes his lips over the spot, sucking gently, as if ensuring not a single trace of himself remains. The sensation is intimate, degrading, and utterly electrifying. He lifts his head, his lips glistening. His eyes are darkened with desire, but there’s a question in them now. A plea.

“Please,” he whispers, the word ragged.
You don’t hesitate. Your fingers slide into his damp hair, not gripping, but caressing. You nod, your own breath catching.

The bright, brilliant smile he gives you is one you’ve never seen before. Pure, electrifying triumph and hunger combined. It’s gone in a flash as his focus drops between your legs, his gaze locking onto your pussy with an intensity that fills your belly with butterflies.

He doesn’t tease. He dives in as if he’s been starving for the taste of you all his life. His tongue is a flat, hot stroke against your soaked slit, a moan vibrating from his throat directly into your most sensitive flesh. The sound he makes is one of greedy pleasure. His hands come up to grip your hips, holding you steady as his tongue explores every fold, every hidden part of you, with a reverence and an urgency that makes your toes curl.

You let your head fall back, a soft sigh escaping you as you finally, fully, give yourself over to the sensation. You rock your hips against his mouth, meeting his rhythm. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he moans again, the sound encouraging you.

“Use your fingers, San,” you command, your voice husky.
He obeys without a second’s hesitation. One finger, then two, slide into you with an easy slickness. It takes him a moment to find the right angle, the perfect rhythm, but when he curls them inside you, brushing that spot that makes you see stars, a broken cry is torn from your throat.

“There,” you gasp, your hips bucking. “Right there. You feel so good, San. So good for me.”
The praise unlocks something in him. He redoubles his efforts, his tongue working your clit in firm, circling motions while his fingers pump into you, relentlessly hitting that perfect, dizzying spot inside.

The coil of pleasure tightens, unbearably fast, until it shatters. Your orgasm crashes over you, a wave of blinding ecstasy that has you crying out his name, your body trembling, your grip on his hair turning vice-like. As the waves subside, you release your hold, your hand falling limply to the bed. San rests his head on your thigh, his breathing as ragged as your own. You can feel the smile on his lips against your skin.

You look down at him, at the man nestled contentedly between your legs, and a profound sense of possession washes over you. He lifts his gaze, his eyes soft and sated, and the look he gives you holds more devotion than any words ever could. He stays there, keeping you company in the quiet, languid aftermath, his presence a warm, comforting weight as you float back down to earth, utterly and completely ruined by him.

Chapter Text

The soft jingle was the first thing you heard when your front door opened, a sound that had become as familiar and comforting as the ocean’s rhythm. You looked up from lacing your sneakers to see San standing in the doorway, a shy, hopeful smile on his face along with a grocery bag in one hand and the simple purple collar in the other, offering it to you.

“Hi,” he said, his voice warm.

“Hi yourself,” you smiled, getting up and crossing the room to him. You took the collar, the leather feeling soft and intimate in your hands. He dipped his head obediently, and you fastened it, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck. A soft sigh escaped him, a sound of pure contentment. You gave the little bell a gentle tap, and it chimed softly. “There. Now you’re home.”

It was a new ritual that still sent a thrill through you. The past couple of weeks had transformed everything. The angry, frustrated surfer and the seemingly arrogant lifeguard were now gone, replaced by… whatever this was. This thing, where he found profound satisfaction in folding your laundry and where your heart did a little flip watching him meticulously re-organize your spice rack.

He’d been unwavering in his care. Even now, with your ankle fully healed and your strength returned, he showed up after his shift, not out of obligation, but with a quiet eagerness. He’d explained it one night over a dinner he’d cooked, his voice sincere and a little vulnerable. “Taking care of you… it doesn’t feel like a chore. It feels like a privilege. It makes me feel… satisfied. Needed. I’d be honored if you’d continue to let me.”

How could you say no to that? Especially when he looked so endearingly focused, wearing your frilly apron over his clothes, a slight frown of concentration on his face as his gloved hands furiously scrubbed at a pot he had dirtied while cooking for you.

The collar had been his idea, whispered over dessert last week—a confession that had made him blush to the tips of his ears. He’d admitted that he always wanted one, a symbol of belonging and care. You’d been surprised, but a little research had shown you it was a gesture of deep trust and intimacy in certain dynamics. Ordering it had felt incredibly right.

He stepped further inside, nearly skipping as the bell gave another cheerful jingle as he headed for the kitchen. “I thought I’d make that pasta you like tonight,” he said, already unpacking fresh basil and tomatoes. “With the garlic bread.”

“You don’t have to, you know,” you said, leaning against the doorway, watching him. It was your usual refrain, but it was now a playful part of your dance. “I’m perfectly capable of burning water all by myself.”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, a genuine grin spreading across his face.
“And deprive me of the pleasure? Never.” He said the word ‘pleasure’ with such simple, earnest conviction that you believed him completely.

You pushed off the doorframe and walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your cheek on the broad muscles of his back. He stilled immediately, leaning back into your touch. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart under your hands.

“Thank you,” you whispered, tiptoeing up to press a kiss just below his ear, right where the leather strap met his skin.
He turned in your arms, his own circling you, pulling you close. The look in his dark eyes was so full of adoration it nearly stole your breath. The tiny bell on his collar gave a muffled ting against the top of your head as he lightly squeezed you.
“No,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. “Thank you. For letting me.”

The following week San waited for you in the living room, just where you’d left him. He stood by the couch, looking endearingly out of place in his dark jeans and a button-down shirt the color of deep ocean blue. It was a side of him you rarely saw, the lifeguard tan contrasted sharply with the elegant fabric, and he’d even attempted to tame his silky black hair. But his posture remained the same… patient, waiting, his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

And around his neck, gleaming against the dark shirt, was the purple collar. The small silver bell hung silent now that he was still, and the nameplate, simply engraved with Sannie, caught the light of a nearby lamp. His eyes lit up the moment he saw you, a warm, awe-filled look that still made your stomach flutter.

“You look…” he began, but his voice seemed to fail him. He just shook his head, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. “Incredible.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you said, stepping closer.

You reached out, not for his hand, but for the collar. Your fingers brushed the cool leather, then the warm skin of his neck beneath it. His eyes fluttered closed for a second at your touch, a soft sigh escaping him. He leaned into the contact ever so slightly, like a cat savoring a stroke. His cheek softly nudged the back of your hand as you buttoned his shirt just one more notch to conceal the collar.

“Ready for our date?” you asked, your voice soft.
His eyes opened, dark and serious.
“I’ve been ready for weeks,” he said, his tone utterly sincere. “I just… I wanted it to be perfect for you. Now that you’re better.”
“Any night with you is perfect,” you said, and you meant it.

He offered you his arm, the gesture old-fashioned and charming. As you walked out into the balmy evening air, the tiny bell on his collar gave a soft, concealed jingle with every step he took. He didn’t seem embarrassed by it in the slightest. In fact, he held his head a little higher, as if proud. Although the slight blush rising up his cheeks hinted to you that he got a little extra thrill out of your shared secret.

The date was, as expected, perfect. San had booked a table at a small, intimate restaurant with string lights and a view of the moonlit ocean. He pulled out your chair, his hand brushing the small of your back in a gesture that was both possessive and reverent. He’d pre-ordered a bottle of your favorite wine, and he listened, utterly captivated, as you talked about getting back on your surfboard tomorrow, his fingers gently tracing over the bell on his collar beneath his shirt as he listened.

Throughout the evening, his touches were constant and gentle. A hand on yours across the table. His knee brushing yours underneath it. Each point of contact sent a thrill through you, a silent promise of what was to come later. The car ride back to your place was filled with a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled. You watched his profile in the dim light, the strong line of his jaw, the way his thumb absently stroked the steering wheel.

The collar was now proudly on display in the safety and comfort of his car, a lavender band against his throat, a secret the two of you carried into the world tonight. When he walked you to your door, he paused, his hands finding your hips. The porch light cast a soft glow over his features.

“I had the best night,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.
“Me too,” you whispered back, leaning into him.
You could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, or maybe it was your own. He dipped his head, his forehead resting against yours.

“Can I come in?” he asked, though the question was a formality.
The answer was in the way your hands came up to rest on his chest, in the way you were already pulling him toward you.
“You never have to ask,” you said, and you finally closed the distance between you, kissing him with all the pent-up anticipation of the last couple of weeks.

Chapter Text

The click of your front door shutting behind you is a final and decisive sound that closes out the rest of the world. The air in the room was already thick with anticipation, charged with the promise that had been building for weeks. There was no need for words. The look you shared said everything. You barely took two steps before a surge of pure wanting propelled you forward.

You leapt into his arms, and he caught you effortlessly, his strong hands splaying across your back, holding you so tightly against his chest you could feel the frantic, excited beat of his heart syncing with your own. Your mouth found his in a kiss that was all hunger and pent-up need, a desperate kiss that left you both breathless. He walked you to the bedroom with sure steps, his path unwavering even as you devoured him.

When you tapped his arm, he lowered you to the floor with a gentleness you’ve grown used to. For a moment, you just stood there, drinking him in. The soft light from your bedside lamp captured the adoration shining through his dark eyes, the plush swell of his kiss-reddened lips. Your gaze dropped to the purple collar around his neck, noticing how it seemed just a fraction tighter with his heavy breathing. You reached out, your fingers tracing the soft leather. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a low sigh escaping him. He was always so beautifully responsive.

Rising onto your toes, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.
“My good boy,” you whispered against his skin, feeling him shiver. Your hands went to the buttons of his shirt, working them open slowly. You savored every inch of skin you revealed from the firm planes of his chest to the dip of his navel. Each button undone was a small victory, each new patch of skin a treasure.

He stood perfectly still, his breathing growing more ragged, his entire being focused on the path of your hands. Once his shirt was off, your fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants. You made quick work of removing his belt and pushing his pants down his hips along with his boxers until he stood completely bare before you, gloriously exposed and utterly trusting.

“Now,” you said, your voice a low, steady command that brooked no argument. “Lie on the bed for me.”

He moved without hesitation, settling himself in the center of your mattress, his head on your pillows. He lay there, watching you with curious eyes, his body a beautiful offering. The obedience was a language you both spoke fluently now, and his immediate compliance was something you found to be extremely arousing. He was proving his devotion, and the sight of him waiting for you, ready for you, sent a wave of possessive heat through you.

The occasional jingle of the bell vibrates through the room as San adjusts himself to watch you slowly peel away your clothes, revealing the matching purple satin and lace beneath, you watch his eyes darken with pure wonder. He sits up, his gaze tracing the lines of the delicate fabric against your skin. His own fingers rise, almost unconsciously, to trace the matching collar around his neck. The connection of your purple to his is a silent, powerful statement that makes his breath catch right before your eyes.

You crawl onto the bed, moving towards him on all fours. He looks at you like you’re the only star in his sky. You press a lingering kiss to his forehead before gently but firmly pressing your index finger against the same spot you’d just kissed, to push him back down onto the mattress. The bell gives a soft, clear chime as his head meets the pillows, and the smile that breaks across his face is breathtaking, his dimples carving deep, joyful grooves in his cheeks.

You lower yourself over him, capturing his mouth in a deep, exploring kiss. You take your time, savoring the taste of him, the way his lips part so willingly, the way his tongue meets yours with so much desire that it makes your head spin. You begin your descent, your lips leaving a trail of fire down his neck. You kiss along his throat, right above the collar’s buckle.

You bite the corded muscle of his neck, sucking just hard enough to make him gasp, to make him arch his back off the bed, but you’re careful not to leave a mark. The low, broken whimpers that spill past his lips are music to your ears. When you reach his chest, you pause, letting your breath ghost over one peaked nipple before you flick your tongue over it. He jolts beneath you, a sharp, involuntary shudder wracking his frame.

“Please,” he whispers, the word ragged.

You smile against his skin, giving the other nipple the same treatment before closing your lips around it and nipping lightly with your teeth. A choked-off cry escapes him, his fingers digging into the sheets beside him. He is writhing, completely at the mercy of your mouth, and the sight of this strong, lovely man coming undone under your ministrations sends a surge of pure power and affection through you. You continue your journey downward, worshiping every inch of him, determined to show him exactly what it means to be yours.

Settled between his thighs, you feel the powerful tremor that wracks his body as you blow a soft, cool stream of air over the slick, flushed head of his cock. It’s a delicate torture, and San shatters under it. His head rolls side to side on the pillow, his hands fisting the sheets until his knuckles are white. When his eyes find yours, they’re glistening, swimming with unshed tears. The sight sends a thrill through you. You wonder, with a hungry curiosity, what it would take to make those tears finally fall, how exquisitely broken he would look crying and overstimulated beneath you.

You lean in and drag the flat of your tongue slowly up the length of his cock, a long, wet strip that makes his entire body jolt. You pause at the tip to press a soft, closed-mouth kiss there, and a broken, helpless moan tears from his throat. His head falls back, exposing the long line of his neck, showing the purple collar he proudly wears, happy to belong to you. You could spend hours like this, teasing him to the very brink of his sanity, drawing out every shudder and gasp.

But that’s an experiment for another night. Tonight has a different purpose.

He cries out again and you take pity on him, ending his delectable misery by taking him into your mouth. You sink down, swallowing around him, working his cock deeper into the warmth of your throat. San goes rigid beneath you, a statue of sheer willpower. You can feel the immense strain in his thighs, the tremor he’s fighting to suppress. He's forcing himself to be still, to not buck up into the incredible heat of your mouth, to be good for you.

You begin to move, establishing a slow, deep rhythm. Your tongue works expertly along his cock, and you hollow your cheeks, the suction pulling a continuous, low groan from him. His composure begins to crack. Every time you take him deep, swallowing until your nose brushes the crisp hair at his base, his abdomen clenches like a fist. Whimpers escape with each exhale and his pleas come in soft, ragged cries.

“P-please... Y/N... wait... I can’t…” he begs, his voice strangled with the effort of holding back.

The sound of his desperation only fuels you. You double your efforts, your movements becoming more intense, more demanding. He’s a writhing, whimpering mess beneath you, completely at the mercy of your mouth. His hands, which had been fisted in the sheets, fly up to hover uncertainly near your head, desperate to touch but terrified to presume.

You place one of them over your hair, granting him silent permission, and his fingers immediately sink into the strands with a gentleness that makes your own heartbeat stutter. He doesn't push or guide… he simply holds on, carefully gathering the strands that fall into your face or get in your way. Even in moments like this when you’re pleasuring him, he still finds little ways to take care of you.

“Please... oh god, please, Y/N,” he chokes out, his voice strangled. “I’m gonna-I need to... please, slow down, just for a second, or I’ll-”

His words dissolve into a high, desperate whine. You see the tension coiling tight, the shudders that continuously wrack his chest and abdomen as he tries to get his breathing back under control. A powerful, possessive wave crashes through you. Despite his pleas, you don’t slow down. Instead, your hand flies out, delivering a sharp, stinging slap to the firm muscle of his thigh. The sound cracks through the room, and San’s back arches off the bed as if electrocuted.

An involuntary, guttural cry is torn from his throat, raw and unfiltered. His eyes are wide and dazed as they lock with yours for a split second before squeezing shut as his orgasm crashes over him. His body convulses beneath you in waves of overwhelming pleasure. You feel the hot, pulsing surge of his release inside your mouth and you’re careful not to swallow everything just yet. Satisfaction flows through you with the slap ultimately culminating in the desired result.

You crawl back up his body and lean down, your hair curtaining his face as you kiss him slowly, deeply, letting him experience the proof of his own pleasure. A low, broken sound vibrates in his throat, a mix of awe and surrender, as he understands what you’re doing. He responds instinctively, his mouth pliant and eager despite his exhaustion. His own taste is on your lips, passed back and forth between your tongues, and the intimacy of it is more profound than anything that came before.

San pouts, his lip nearly quivering as you remove yourself from him, slowly coming off the bed. Still, he doesn’t dare challenge you. Instead, he watches you with bated breath, curiosity shining in his glassy eyes. His whole body stills as you reach around your back to relieve yourself of the bra that’s spent the entire evening keeping your breast smashed together and held upright. You pause as you observe San and the unasked question in his stare.

“Sannie baby, do you want to take off my bra and panties for me tonight?” You ask teasingly, making sure to use the pet name you know he likes to be called when he wears his collar.

“Yes please!” He replies quickly, hurrying off the bed, as if he’s worried you might change your mind.

You move your hair out of his way as he moves behind you, locating the clasp. You feel the moment the bra loosens around your chest but you don’t allow it to fall just yet. You turn to face San and guide his hand to the loosened strap at your shoulder. He nods at you before gingerly pulling the strap down your arm. He kisses where the strap once was before repeating the motion on your other shoulder.

Your bra falls away somewhere on the floor. San’s eyes are wide, dark, and utterly captivated as they drink in the sight of you. He is perfectly still, his entire being focused on the simple, stunning fact of your bare skin. The open appreciation on his face isn’t lewd or greedy. It’s pure, almost humbled. It’s the look of a man who has been granted a privilege he still can’t quite believe is his.

You can see the struggle in the line of his jaw, the tension in his throat as he swallows hard. The tiny bell on his purple collar is silent now. His hands, which were so deft with the bra clasp, now hang at his sides, fingers flexing slightly as if fighting the instinct to reach for you. The world is holding its breath with him. Still, he doesn’t move to touch. He is waiting. Always waiting for you. A slow, warm smile curves your lips.

“See something you like?” you ask, your voice a low, teasing murmur.

The question breaks his trance for a second. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the raw, unguarded adoration in them is enough to make your own breath catch. He nods, a little helplessly, words apparently failing him. You reach out and gently place your hand on his chest, right over his pounding heart. You can feel the frantic, steady beat beneath your palm.

“Then don’t just stare,” you whisper, your tone softening into a command that is also an invitation. “Your hands know what to do.”

That’s all the permission he needs. A shudder runs through him, and then his hands are rising, not with haste, but with a deliberate, worshipful slowness. His touch, when it finally comes, is feather-light. His palms hover for a moment, warming the air just above your skin, before they finally, gently, cup the weight of your breasts. His thumbs stroke over your nipples with a touch so tender it makes you ache. He lets out a long, shaky exhale, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His eyes close, as if he’s committing this feeling, this moment, to memory forever.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your lips, the word a prayer. “You’re so perfect.”

And in his hands, under his worshipful gaze, you feel like you truly are. You then gently grip his wrists and guide his calloused hands to the waistband of your panties. He lowers himself to his knees in front of you in a move that even leaves you blushing. The soft brush of his lips against your waist as he lowers the fabric sends a shiver straight to your core. You step out of the discarded lace, and the air feels cool against your newly bared skin.

He doesn’t move. He stays on his knees, his gaze locked on the most intimate part of you. The hunger in his eyes is a palpable naked need that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. But it’s tempered by something else, something that has become the foundation of everything between you. When his eyes finally lift to meet yours, they are glassy with want, his pupils blown wide. The husky tone of his voice is barely a whisper, but it echoes in the silent room.

“Please,” he breathes, the word thick with emotion. “Can I... can I kiss you?”

You know exactly what he's asking. The formality of it, the sheer, breathtaking respect in his plea, undoes you completely. He could have assumed. He could have just leaned in. But he needs to hear it. He needs the permission. A slow, warm smile spreads across your lips. You reach out and cradle his jaw, your thumb stroking the sharp line of his cheekbone. You can feel the tension thrumming through him, the effort it takes to remain perfectly still.

“You don’t ever have to beg for that,” you say, your voice soft but firm, laced with a warmth that is for him and him alone. “But I love that you do.”
You let the silence hang for a moment, watching the anticipation build in his expression, seeing the way he trembles under your touch.
“Yes, Sannie,” you whisper, your command a gentle benediction. “Kiss me.”

The sound that escapes him is one of pure, unadulterated relief and devotion. He doesn't need to be told twice. His hands come to rest on your hips, steadying you, anchoring himself, as he leans forward with a tenderness that steals your breath. And when his mouth finally meets your skin, it feels less like a kiss and more like a vow.

The world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on you, to the strong, sure hands that hold you exactly where he wants you. There's no hesitation in him, only a single-minded focus that is utterly captivating. The moment your leg is over his shoulder, cradled in the crook of his arm, and his other arm wraps around your hips to anchor you, you know you're in for something overwhelming.

He doesn't tease. He devours. His tongue is a flat, wet stroke that maps your entire pussy in one long, languid pass, as if he's memorizing your taste, your texture. A broken moan tears from your throat, your head falling back. Turning you, he maneuvers you to sit on the edge of the bed in a fluid movement that leaves you breathless. He settles between your knees, his dark eyes blazing with a hunger that’s entirely for you. He doesn’t look away as he lowers his head again.

This time, his approach is different. Precise. He licks a slow, deliberate path up your slick folds, a shudder wracking his own frame at the taste. He circles your swollen clit with the very tip of his tongue, once, then twice with a pressure so perfect it has your hips bucking against his hold. Then he changes tactics. His tongue plunges inside you, a firm, thrusting mimicry that steals the air from your lungs. It’s the final, devastating stroke. The coil of pleasure that had been tightening in your belly snaps.

A sharp cry is ripped from you as your orgasm crashes over you. Your back arches violently, and your hands fly to his hair, fisting in the silky strands, holding on for dear life as waves of sensation roll through you. He doesn’t pull away. He rides it out with you, his tongue gentling to soft, lapping strokes, drawing out every last shuddering pulse until you’re limp and trembling, sinking back into the mattress.

He finally lifts his head, his lips glistening, his breathing as ragged as your own. His eyes are hazy with pleasure and a profound satisfaction. He gently lowers your leg from his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before leaning forward to rest his forehead against your stomach, his arms wrapping around your waist in a quiet, possessive hug. The only sound is the frantic beating of your heart and his soft, contented sigh against your skin.

You’re both spent but you realize the night is not over yet when you shift to sit up and feel the unmistakable pressure of San’s hard cock pressed against your leg. He lifts his head to look up at you, waiting for your next move. You smile down at the man you've grown more than fond of, the man you’ve started falling in love with, and you kiss the top of his head, your heart bursting at the sigh of contentment that hums through his body at the gesture.

“Sannie, go lay on the bed for me.”

That’s all it takes before he’s back on the bed. No doubt, you feel weaker than you had before but the anticipation of finally having sex with San is more than enough to fuel your tired body into action. You crawl over San again for the third time tonight but this time you’re fully naked and straddling him. No barrier between you, nothing to stop you from lining his cock up to your soaking entrance.

The moment condenses to the point where your bodies finally meet, to the slick, perfect friction of him slipping inside you. The feeling of him filling you is overwhelming, a perfect, stretching fullness that steals the air from your lungs. Your moan is a raw sound of pleasure, and it’s echoed by a deep groan from San. His head falls back against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut, as if the sensation is almost too much to bear.

“You feel…” he gasps, his voice ragged. “Y/N... you feel like heaven.”

You’re still for a minute, allowing yourself to adjust to size before you begin to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that makes him cry out. His eyes flutter open, dark and hazy with pleasure, completely glued to you. The look of utter worship on his face is more intoxicating than any touch. He is witnessing you, taking in every flicker of pleasure on your face, every shift of your body above him, as if it's the most sacred sight he's ever seen.

“Touch me, Sannie,” you command, your voice husky and raw, cutting through the sound of skin meeting skin.

His hands, which had been gripping the sheets like a lifeline, immediately fly to you. One palm cups your breast, his thumb roughly circling your pebbled nipple, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight to your pussy. The other hand slides down your sweat-slicked stomach, his fingers finding your clit with an unerring accuracy that makes you cry out. He’s a quick study, your lifeguard, his touch perfectly in tune with the frantic pace you’ve set.

You can feel the tension coiling tight in your belly like a spring about to snap. You see it in the desperate clench of his jaw, the way his hips stutter beneath you, trying and failing to match your punishing rhythm. Neither of you will last much longer. Driven by a primal need to claim him, you lean forward and close your fingers around the purple leather of his collar, silencing the little bell that had been a constant, cheerful soundtrack to the night. You tug.

It’s not a gentle pull. It’s a sharp, claiming jerk that cuts off his air for a second. His eyes squeeze shut, a strangled groan tearing from his throat. But his thumb on your clit doesn’t stop. If anything, it moves faster, more insistently. You grip the collar like a rein, riding him with a ferocity that shakes the bedframe. Each bounce on his cock drives a choked gasp from his lips, the muscles in his neck strain, and the sight is so powerfully erotic you feel a fresh surge of wetness coat his length.

“Please,” he begs, his voice cracking. “I’m... I can’t..."

“You can,” you whisper, releasing his collar, you lean forward to kiss him, deep and slow, swallowing his moans. “And you will. For me.”

That simple phrase, for me, is all it takes. His eyes lock with yours, and you see the exact moment he surrenders completely, giving himself over to you. His movements become more urgent, his thrusts meeting yours with a growing desperation. The noise your bed makes as it scrapes across the floor of your bedroom is drowned out in the sound of your shared moans, and the frantic jingle of the bell on his collar.

The pressure on your clit intensifies, his thumb circling with a frantic, perfect rhythm. You can feel the tension coiling impossibly tight in your own belly and you know your only moments away from falling apart. Your fingers find purchase around the soft leather around San’s neck again, only this time you pull him upright by the collar, in a move that was both instinctual and necessary. You need to be closer, to feel the shuddering of his chest against yours as you both hurtle toward the edge.

His arms lock around you, holding you so tight it’s almost difficult to breathe, but it’s exactly what you need. The overstimulation is a sweet agony, and when your orgasm crashes through you, your entire body shakes from ecstasy. You feel him pulse deep inside you, his own release wrenched from him by the violent, rhythmic clenching of your pussy. You both slow down, staying in each other’s embrace as you gradually come down from the high together.

He shifts slightly, and you feel the wetness of his tears on your skin before you hear a broken, helpless sob muffled against your breast, the sound raw and profoundly vulnerable. The soft, choked sob that escapes him is not a sound of sadness, but of utter, overwhelming release. A surrender so complete it has to overflow. You tighten your hold, pressing a kiss into his hair, whispering wordless comforts against his temple.

For a long moment, you simply cling to each other, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs, slick with sweat. Slowly, you both slump sideways onto the mattress, still joined, his head nestled in the crook of your neck. The room is silent except for the ragged sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal.

His hand, which had been gripping your hip so fiercely moments before, now relaxes. His fingers drift down, tracing the faint, silvery line of the scar on your thigh. Like he’s tracing the map that led him to you. The touch is so tender, so full of unspoken meaning, that tears prickle at the corners of your own eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The gentle stroke of his finger along that old wound says it all.

Within minutes, you can feel his breathing even out, his body going lax against yours as sleep claims him. You stay awake a moment longer, just watching him. The fierce, confident lifeguard is gone, replaced by this beautiful, vulnerable man sleeping trustingly in your arms, a tiny bell silent at his throat. You press one last kiss to his forehead, then let your own eyes fall shut, the rhythm of his breath lulling you into a deep and dreamless sleep.