The heat wasn't natural. It pressed down on the back of Jory’s neck like a physical hand, heavy and damp, smelling of burning copper and wet salt. It was the kind of heat that stuck your shirt to your spine and made the air shimmer with a low, static buzz, blurring the line between the ocean and the sky. He kicked at a ridge of dark, wet sand, watching the way the grains clumped over the toe of his boot. He focused on that. Just the sand. Not the shuttle schedule ticking down on his wrist interface. Not the hulking silhouette of the transport tower visible through the haze down the beach. And definitely not Sam, walking three feet to his left.
Three feet. It felt like a canyon. It felt like nothing.
"You’re walking too fast," Sam said. His voice was low, cutting through the rhythmic crash of the waves. It wasn't a complaint. Sam never complained. It was an observation, stated with that maddening, grounded calm that made Jory want to scream and curl into a ball at the same time.
Jory didn't slow down. If he slowed down, he’d have to think about why his legs felt like they were vibrating. "We’re going to be late. The perimeter curfew triggers in twenty."
"We have time," Sam said. He stopped.
The absence of Sam's footsteps was louder than the ocean. Jory took two more jerky steps before his momentum failed him. He spun around, the movement uncoordinated, his heel catching in the loose drift. He stumbled, arms flailing slightly, before he caught his balance.
Sam was just standing there. The late-afternoon light, filtered through the atmospheric shield overhead, turned the world a bruised shade of purple and gold. It caught in Sam’s hair, dark and messy, and highlighted the sharp line of his jaw. He looked solid. Immovable. While Jory felt like he was made of glass and panic, Sam was just… there. Anchored.
"We don't have time," Jory snapped, though the bite in his tone was weak. He wiped his palms on his shorts. They were sweating. Why were they sweating? "The transport creates the vacuum seal at 1800. If we aren't processed, they bump us to the next cycle. And the next cycle is—"
"Jory." Sam didn't raise his voice. He just said the name. He dropped it into the space between them like a weight.
Jory’s mouth snapped shut. He looked at Sam’s boots. Heavy, military-grade, scuffed at the toes. Then his knees. Then the hem of his t-shirt, fluttering in the hot wind. He couldn't look at his eyes. Not yet. If he looked at Sam’s eyes, the carefully constructed dam inside his chest was going to break, and he wasn't ready to drown. Not here. Not in the middle of Sector 4’s public beach.
"Stop looking at the tower," Sam said softly. He took a step forward. Just one.
Jory flinched. It was involuntary—a sharp intake of breath, a twitch of his shoulders. His body knew Sam was getting closer before his brain registered the movement. The heat radiating off Sam was different from the sun; it was sharper, more electric.
"I'm not looking at the tower," Jory lied. He was looking at the horizon, where the water met the containment field. The ocean here was real—mostly—but the sky was a projection of what Earth used to look like. It was too blue, too perfect. It made his head ache.
"You're vibrating," Sam noted. He wasn't mocking him. He sounded… careful. Like he was approaching a frightened animal.
"I'm not." Jory crossed his arms, digging his fingers into his biceps. The skin there was hot, tacky with humidity. "I just… I hate the wait. I want to get it over with. The assignment logs are already up. You’re going to the Orbital Platform. I’m staying ground-side. It’s done. Why are we dragging this out?"
Sam took another step. He was close now. Too close. Jory could smell him—detergent, the sharp tang of the ocean, and something underneath that was just warm skin and biology. It made Jory’s stomach do a slow, sick somersault.
"Is that what we're doing?" Sam asked. "Dragging it out?"
"Yes," Jory breathed. The word was a ghost. "We walked all the way to the North Point. For what? To stare at the water? We could have stayed in the dorms. We could have… I don't know. Packed."
"I didn't want to pack," Sam said. He reached out. His hand hovered for a second, then landed on Jory’s shoulder. It wasn't a grab. It was a claim.
The contact hit Jory like a physical blow. A shockwave went down his spine, hot and fast, ending in his toes. His breath hitched, a humiliating, audible sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. He froze, terrified that if he moved, the hand would disappear. Terrified that if he didn't move, he would collapse.
Sam’s thumb brushed the curve of Jory’s collarbone, right over the fabric of his shirt. Even through the cotton, it burned. "I wanted to be here. With you."
"We've been roommates for six months," Jory argued weakly. He was staring at Sam’s chest now. At the slow rise and fall of his breathing. "You’ve been 'with me' every day."
"Not like this," Sam said. His voice dropped an octave, rougher now. "Not outside. Not without the cameras. Not without the schedule."
The wind picked up, whipping hair across Jory’s face. He didn't brush it away. He couldn't move his arms. He felt pinned by Sam’s gaze, by the weight of the hand on his shoulder. This was the Western Boys' Love dynamic in its purest physics—the unstoppable force meeting the movable object. Sam was the gravity well, and Jory was the debris caught in the orbit, spiraling in, burning up on entry.
"It doesn't matter," Jory whispered. The despair was rising in his throat, tasting like bile. "Tomorrow, you’re on a shuttle. You’re going up. I’m staying down. The comms lag is forty minutes. We… we drift. That’s what happens. Everyone drifts."
He tried to pull away, a half-hearted twist of his torso. Sam didn't let go. His grip tightened, just a fraction. Not hurting, but holding. Grounding.
"I’m not everyone," Sam said. "And neither are you."
Jory laughed, a brittle, cracking sound. "Statistically, we are. We're just two cadets in a batch of five thousand. We’re data points, Sam. That’s it."
"Look at me," Sam commanded.
Jory shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. If he looked, it became real. If he looked, he had to acknowledge that the ache in his chest wasn't heatstroke. It was grief. Premature, suffocating grief.
"Jory," Sam said again. Closer. He was right there. Jory could feel the heat of Sam’s body radiating against his front. "Don't hide."
It was the gentleness that broke him. If Sam had been rough, if he had yelled, Jory could have fought back. He could have been angry. But the softness? The terrifying, restrained tenderness? It dismantled his defenses like they were made of wet paper.
Jory opened his eyes.
Sam was looking at him with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. His eyes were dark, reflecting the violet light of the dying afternoon. There was no hesitation in them. No fear. Just a raw, terrifying focus that made the rest of the world blur into irrelevance.
"You think I’m going to let the lag stop me?" Sam asked quietly. His hand moved up, sliding along the column of Jory’s neck to cup his jaw. His fingers were rough, calloused from the simulation controls, but his touch was agonizingly light. "You think I’m going to forget this?"
"You will," Jory insisted, though his voice was trembling. "You’ll get up there. You’ll see the stars. You’ll meet people who aren't… who aren't a mess. Who don't panic during atmospheric turbulence. You’ll forget."
"I don't care about the stars," Sam said. He leaned in. The space between them vanished. "I care about the way you talk in your sleep. I care about how you memorize the serial numbers on the ration packs because you're bored. I care about this."
His thumb stroked Jory’s cheekbone. Jory leaned into the touch without meaning to, his eyes fluttering shut again. The sensory input was overwhelming—the smell of rain coming, the sound of the ocean, the thudding of his own heart, and Sam, Sam, Sam.
"I don't want you to go," Jory whispered. The truth fell out of him, unpolished and pathetic. "I don't want to be here without you."
"Then don't be," Sam murmured. His forehead rested against Jory’s. The contact was electric, a circuit closing. "We have tonight. We have right now. The shuttle doesn't leave until 0800. That’s twelve hours. Don't waste them being scared of tomorrow."
"I can't help it," Jory said. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, hot and frustrating. "I’m always scared."
"I know," Sam said. He moved his other hand, wrapping it around Jory’s waist, pulling him flush against him. The collision of their bodies knocked the breath out of Jory. He felt small, enveloped, safe. "That’s why I’m here. To catch you."
Jory’s hands found their way to Sam’s shirt, gripping the fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. He buried his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, inhaling the scent of him, trying to brand it into his memory banks. "It’s not enough time," he mumbled into the skin.
"It’s never enough time," Sam agreed into his hair. "But it’s what we have."
They stood there for a long moment, the world narrowing down to the point of contact between their bodies. The wind whipped around them, kicking up sand, but Jory didn't feel it anymore. He only felt the solid warmth of Sam, the steady rhythm of his heart beating against Jory’s chest.
Suddenly, a siren wailed in the distance—the perimeter warning. The sun was dipping below the artificial horizon line, the light shifting from gold to a deep, bruising indigo.
Jory jumped, his nerves fraying instantly. "The curfew—"
"Ignore it," Sam said. He pulled back just enough to look at Jory again. His expression was fierce now, possessive. "Let them write us up. Let them dock our credits. I don't care."
"Sam—"
"Make me care," Sam challenged. His voice was a low growl. "Make me forget about the curfew."
Jory stared at him, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The challenge hung in the air, dangerous and thrilling. Sam was giving him permission. He was giving him an order.
Jory didn't think. He didn't analyze. He just reacted. He surged forward, standing on his tiptoes, and crashed his mouth against Sam’s.
It wasn't a movie kiss. It was messy, desperate, and tasted of salt and desperation. Their teeth clashed. Jory’s nose bumped Sam’s cheek. But then Sam made a noise—a low, guttural sound in his throat—and tilted his head, deepening the angle, taking control.
His mouth was hot, demanding. He kissed Jory like he was trying to breathe for both of them. Jory’s hands slid up to tangle in Sam’s hair, pulling him closer, closer, trying to merge their atoms. The sensation was blinding. It was like standing in the center of a solar flare. Every nerve ending in Jory’s body lit up, screaming, singing.
Sam’s hands were everywhere—on his waist, his back, his neck—mapping him, memorizing him. He backed Jory up, stumbling through the sand, until Jory’s back hit the rough, warm surface of a drift log. Sam pressed him against it, his body a heavy, welcome weight, shielding Jory from the wind, the sky, the future.
When they finally broke apart, gasping, the air felt cold. Jory’s lips were throbbing. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, as if the gravity on the beach had suddenly shifted.
Sam rested his forehead against Jory’s again, his breathing ragged. "There," he whispered. "Now tell me you're thinking about the schedule."
Jory let out a shaky laugh. "Shut up."
"Make me," Sam said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
Jory kissed him again, softer this time, but with no less intensity. It was a promise. A plea. A goodbye and a hello all wrapped into one.
They sat on the drift log as the sky turned to black, the artificial stars flickering to life above them. They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. Sam kept his arm around Jory’s shoulders, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into his arm. Jory leaned against him, watching the bioluminescent algae in the waves start to glow, a neon blue reflection of the fake stars above.
"I’ll write," Jory said into the silence. It sounded small, but firm. "Every day. Even if the lag is bad. Even if you don't answer right away."
"I’ll answer," Sam said. He looked out at the dark water. "And I’ll come back. Once my rotation is done. I’ll request a transfer to ground-side."
Jory looked up at him, eyes wide. "You’d lose your rank. The Orbital track is… it’s prestigious. It’s what you worked for."
Sam looked down, his eyes locking onto Jory’s. The intensity was back, that burning, quiet resolve. "It’s just a job, Jory. It’s not… this."
He squeezed Jory’s shoulder. "I can be a pilot anywhere. But I can't be this anywhere else."
Jory felt a lump form in his throat, but this time, it wasn't fear. It was something else. Something warm and expanding, pushing back the cold dread of the future. He grabbed Sam’s hand, lacing their fingers together, holding on tight.
"Okay," Jory whispered. "Okay."
The wind howled around them, carrying the scent of a storm that was programmed to arrive at 0200. The transport tower blinked in the distance, a red eye watching them. But for now, in the shadow of the drift log, with Sam’s heat seeping into his side, Jory wasn't afraid. He was here. He was real. And he was loved.
The future was a vast, terrifying void. But they had a map now. They had a tether.
Sam turned his hand over, palm to palm, and squeezed. "Ready to walk back?"
Jory looked at the long stretch of dark beach leading back to the compound. Back to reality. Back to the countdown.
"Not yet," Jory said, leaning his head on Sam’s shoulder. "Just… a minute more."
"Take all the time you need," Sam said. And in the dark, under the glitching stars, he sounded like he could stop time itself, just for them.