Standing in a lingerie shop at twenty-six years old, Beckett Marlow was pretty sure this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done. And he'd once tried to skate on a frozen pond in early November, so the bar wasn't exactly high.

"Stop looking so terrified, babe," Clarke said, her voice carrying over the buzz of fluorescent lights. "You're making the sales associate nervous."

Beck glanced at the woman behind the counter—mid-fifties, reading glasses perched on her nose, watching him with the kind of patient amusement usually reserved for toddlers having tantrums. He offered a weak smile. She smiled back, and he felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck.

"I shouldn't be here," he muttered, low enough that only Clarke could hear. "This is—this is insane. I'm buying lingerie. For myself. For my fiancé's birthday."

"And?" Clarke held up a hanger, examining a scrap of red fabric like she was appraising fine art. "You love him. He loves you. His birthday's in three days. You have a budget of like, ahunderd and forty dollars because you two decided to sink everything into a hockey camp."

"A hundred and Fifty dollars," Beck corrected, then winced. "And it's not—it's not that I don't want to get him something good. It's that I don't know what's good. I'm a hockey player, Clarke. I know sticks and pucks and ice. I don't know—" he gestured vaguely at the racks of silk and lace surrounding them, "—any of this."

Clarke snorted. "You know what Topher likes. You've been dating him since college. You live with him. You're engaged to him." She dropped the red scrap back onto the rack and turned to face him fully, her pink curls bouncing with the movement. "What does he like, Beck?"

The question landed harder than it should have. Beck opened his mouth, closed it, and felt his brain short-circuit as every answer that came to mind was either too explicit for a public store or too embarrassing to say out loud.

Topher liked his coffee black with one sugar. Topher liked falling asleep with his nose pressed against Beck's shoulder. Topher liked running his hands over Beck's body after a long day—those precise, clever physiotherapist hands that had mapped every muscle, every tendon, every sensitive spot Beck didn't even know he had until Topher found them.

Clarke was grinning at him. "See? You know exactly what he likes. So what would he like to unwrap on his birthday?"

Beck's face was on fire. "I don't—"

"Let me rephrase." Clarke stepped closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "What would he like to unwrap you in?"

The fluorescent lights buzzed. A woman in the next aisle over cleared her throat. Beck's brain produced exactly one image: Topher's grey eyes going dark, those strong hands sliding up Beck's thighs, pushing aside—

"That's the look," Clarke said, delighted. "That's the 'oh god, I want it' look. Hold onto that."

"I hate you," Beck said, but there was no heat in it. He was still caught in the fantasy, his pulse doing something complicated in his throat. "I genuinely, deeply hate you."

"You love me. I'm the one who dragged you in here because you were going to buy him a gift card to the sports store like a coward."

"It was a nice gift card."

"It was a cop-out." Clarke turned back to the rack, her fingers dancing over the hangers. "You want to give him something that says I know you. I see you. I want you. A gift card says I forgot until yesterday and panic-bought this at the gas station. "

Beck rubbed a hand over his face. She wasn't wrong. She was never wrong, which was possibly the most infuriating thing about her.

The truth was, he'd been spiraling about this gift for weeks. Topher had given up so much to come work at the camp with him—a stable clinic job, a steady paycheck, the kind of security that Beck's hockey career had never quite provided. And Topher had done it without hesitation, without a single doubt, because Beck had asked and that had been enough.

And now it was Topher's birthday, and Beck had fifty dollars and a head full of love that he didn't know how to wrap.

"Okay," Clarke said, and her voice had shifted—softer, gentler. She held up a hanger with something green on it, and Beck's brain stuttered. "Okay, look at this."

She dangled it from one finger, and Beck's throat went dry.

It was lace. Green lace, the color of deep forest, the color of summer grass after rain. It was a set—something that looked like it was meant to be worn together, though Beck didn't have the vocabulary to name the pieces. There was a top, maybe, and something else, and—

His eyes caught on the back. There was a hole there, a cutout, a dark promise of bare skin.

"Clarke," Beck heard himself say, and his voice sounded strange. Distant. Like it was coming from somewhere else. "What is that?"

"It's a set. Lace. Very pretty, very expensive-looking, and"—she turned it so he could see the back more clearly—"it's got a little surprise."

The hole was shaped like a teardrop, wide at the top and narrowing to a point at the base of the spine. Beck stared at it, and his brain helpfully supplied an image: Topher's fingers tracing that exposed strip of skin, slow and deliberate, mapping the curve of his spine the way he mapped everything else.

His knees actually buckled. Just a little. He had to grab the rack to steady himself.

"Oh my god," Clarke breathed. "You're going to buy it."

"I—" Beck swallowed hard. "I don't—"

"You're going to buy it, and you're going to wear it, and Topher is going to lose his goddamn mind." Clarke was grinning like she'd just won the lottery. "I knew it. I knew the green one would get you."

Beck couldn't look away from the lace. It was still dangling from her finger, swaying slightly, and he could picture it so clearly—the weight of it against his skin, the way the green would look against his tan, the way Topher's eyes would go dark and hungry when he saw it.

His grip tightened on the black silk he'd already grabbed. He'd picked it up ten minutes ago, almost without thinking, drawn to its smoothness and the way it caught the light. It was a robe, maybe, or something simple and elegant. He'd been holding it so long that the fabric had warmed to his palm.

The green set was different. The green set was a statement.

"Try it on," Clarke said.

Beck blinked. "What?"

"Try it on. You need to know how it fits, how it feels. You don't want to give him something that doesn't work." She tossed the green set at him, and Beck caught it on reflex, his fingers closing around lace so soft it almost didn't feel real. "Go on. Fitting room's right there."

Beck looked down at the lace in his hands. It was impossibly light, impossibly delicate. He could feel the texture of it against his calloused palms, and the contrast was almost jarring—his hands, built for hockey sticks and ice, holding something this fragile.

The thought of Topher's hands on this fabric, on him, made his heart pound.

"Clarke," he said, and his voice came out rough. "I can't—"

"You can. You will. And you're going to come out of that fitting room looking like a goddamn vision, and I'm going to tell you if it's the one." She crossed her arms, her smirk firmly in place. "That's what best friends are for, babe."

Beck's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

He looked at the green lace. He looked at the black silk in his other hand. He looked at Clarke, who was watching him with the knowing eyes of someone who had already won this argument.

"Fine," he heard himself say. "Fine. But if anyone I know sees me—"

"They won't. And even if they did, you're buying lingerie for your fiancé's birthday. That's romantic as hell." Clarke was already steering him toward the fitting rooms, one hand on his back. "Go. Try it on. I'll guard the curtain."

The fitting room area was tucked in the back of the store, behind a rack of silk robes in muted colors. The curtains were heavy velvet, deep burgundy, and they brushed against Beck's knuckles as he reached for the opening.

His heart was going crazy in his chest. He could feel it pounding against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

He looked down at the green lace in his hands. The hole in the back seemed to stare back at him, a dark promise of what was to come.

Topher's fingers, tracing that strip of bare skin. Topher's hands, sliding the lace aside. Topher's voice, low and rough, telling Beck how good he looked, how much he wanted him—

Beck's hand touched the velvet curtain, and he paused.

Clarke was still behind him, watching. He could feel her eyes on his back, could hear the barely-contained glee in her voice when she said, "You've got this, babe."

Beck took a breath. The air smelled like new lace and clean carpet and something floral he couldn't name. The velvet was soft against his fingers, heavy and cool.

The green lace was warm in his other hand, impossibly soft against his palm.

He thought about Topher. About those grey eyes, that dry smile, those hands that had held him through every high and low of the past four years. About the way Topher had quit his job without a second thought, because Beck had asked him to. About the way Topher looked at him sometimes, like Beck was the most incredible thing he'd ever seen.

Beck's throat tightened.

He wanted to give Topher something that said all of that back. Something that said I see you. I want you. I'm yours.

He pulled the curtain aside.

The curtain slid back on silent rings, and the fitting room opened up in front of him like a held breath. It was small—just enough room for a wooden bench, a mirror on the back wall, and a hook on the side where he could hang the things he didn't want to wrinkle. The lighting was softer in here, warmer, a single bulb behind a frosted shade that cast everything in a honeyed glow.

Beck stepped inside and let the velvet fall shut behind him. The fabric whispered against the rod, and then there was silence—just the hum of the lights and the distant murmur of the store beyond the curtain.

He stood there for a long moment, holding the green lace in one hand and the black silk in the other, feeling the weight of both. The mirror was right in front of him, and he could see himself in it—broad shoulders under a hockey camp t-shirt, sandy hair a mess, stubble darkening his jaw. He looked like he'd just come off the ice, not like someone about to try on lingerie for his fiancé's birthday.

He set the black silk on the bench first, smoothing it out with a hand that wasn't quite steady. The robe was simpler than he'd realized—long, elegant, with a tie at the waist and a collar that would sit high against his throat. He'd picked it up without thinking, drawn to the way it caught the light, but now that he was here, he couldn't quite picture himself in it. It felt like something that belonged to a different kind of person. Someone who knew what they were doing.

The green lace was still warm in his other hand.

Beck looked down at it—really looked, for the first time since Clarke had tossed it at him. The set was two pieces. The top was delicate, almost weightless, with a deep plunge that would leave his chest bare and a lace pattern that would sit against his skin like a second breath. The bottoms were high-cut, the kind that would hug his hips and leave nothing to the imagination. And the hole in the back—that teardrop of bare skin, wide at the top and narrowing to a point at the base of his spine—was still there, still promising, still waiting.

He swallowed hard and reached for the hem of his shirt.

The fabric pulled over his head, and the air hit his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. He folded the shirt and set it on the bench next to the black silk, then hesitated with his hands on the waistband of his jeans.

This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He'd stripped down in locker rooms a thousand times, in front of teammates and strangers and everyone in between. But this was different. This wasn't about getting ready for a game or a shower. This was about putting something on, not taking something off.

He unfastened his jeans anyway, letting them drop to the floor, and stepped out of them in his boxers. The mirror showed him everything: the broad shoulders, the thick thighs, the scatter of freckles across his chest that Topher liked to trace with his fingertips. He looked like himself. He looked like the same guy who'd wake up tomorrow and spend six hours on the ice, drilling kids on their wrist shots.

Then he picked up the green lace, and everything shifted.

The top went on first. It was harder than it looked—more straps, more hooks, more tiny adjustments than he'd expected. He fumbled with the clasp at the back, his fingers thick and clumsy, and when he finally got it fastened, he had to stop and stare.

The lace settled against his chest like it had been made for him. The deep plunge left his collarbones bare, the pattern of the fabric following the lines of his pectorals in a way that made him look... different. Softer. Prettier, maybe, in a way he'd never thought of himself before.

He reached for the bottoms, and his hands were shaking.

They slid up his thighs easily, the high cut making his legs look longer, the lace hugging his hips like it knew exactly where to hold. He adjusted the waistband, checked the fit in the mirror, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

The man looking back at him was still Beck. Same broad shoulders, same sandy hair, same blue eyes. But the lace changed something. It softened the hard lines of his body, drew the eye to the skin it revealed instead of the muscle it covered. The hole in the back—he twisted to see it in the mirror, craning his neck—showed a strip of bare spine that made his stomach flip.

Topher's fingers would find that spot. Topher's hands would slide through that opening, trace the curve of his backbone, press against the warm skin there while he whispered something low and rough against Beck's ear.

Beck's mouth went dry.

He turned back to the mirror, and he was still staring at himself—at the lace, at the way it made him look like someone he didn't quite recognize—when he heard Clarke's voice from beyond the curtain, sharp with barely-contained glee.

"Well? How's it look, babe?"

Beck's heart was doing something complicated in his chest—half terrified, half thrilled, all of it loud enough that he was sure Clarke could hear it from the other side of the curtain. He looked at himself in the mirror one more time, at the green lace that seemed to glow against his skin, at the strip of bare spine that the teardrop cutout revealed. Topher would lose his mind. Topher would trace that opening with his thumb, slow and deliberate, and Beck would forget his own name.

He grabbed the curtain and yanked it open.

The rings rattled against the rod, and Beck stepped out before he could second-guess himself, planting his hands on his hips like he'd just scored the game-winning goal. His chin was up. His face was on fire. His legs felt like they'd been replaced with something that wasn't quite solid.

"Ta-da," he said, and his voice cracked on the second syllable.

Clarke's head snapped up from her phone, and for one glorious second, her mouth fell open. The smirk vanished. The knowing look evaporated. She just stared at him, her brown eyes going wide, her pink curls catching the fluorescent light as she blinked like she was trying to make sure he was real.

Beck's stomach flipped. "Well?"

Clarke opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

And then she let out a whistle so sharp and so loud that the sales associate at the front of the store actually looked up from her register.

"Holy shit, babe," Clarke breathed, and her voice was almost reverent. "Holy. Shit."

Beck felt the heat crawl from his neck to his ears. "Is that—is that good?"

"Good?" Clarke took a step toward him, her eyes doing a slow sweep from his face to his chest to his hips and back up again. "Beck, I've known you since freshman year. I've seen you in hockey gear, in swim trunks, in that terrible suit you wore to my sister's wedding. I have never—" she gestured at him with both hands, "—never seen you look like that."

Beck's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. "Like what?"

"Like a goddamn centerfold." Clarke's grin was back, wider than before, and she reached out to grab his shoulders, spinning him around so she could see the back. "Oh my god. Oh my god, the hole. The hole is—Beck, this is it. This is the one."

"You think?"

"I know." Clarke's fingers brushed against the bare strip of his spine, and Beck shivered, the sensation catching him off guard. "Topher is going to lose his entire mind. He's going to see this and forget his own name. He's going to—"

"Okay, okay." Beck pulled away, his face burning, and turned to face her again. "I get it. It's good."

"It's not good. It's a masterpiece." Clarke crossed her arms, her smirk firmly back in place. "You're buying it."

"I—" Beck looked down at himself, at the lace that felt like it had been made for him, at the way the green made his skin look warmer, the way the high cut made his legs look longer. He thought about Topher's grey eyes going dark. About those physiotherapist hands sliding up his thighs. About the look on Topher's face when Beck stepped out of the bathroom on his birthday, wearing nothing but this.

His mouth went dry.

"Yeah," he heard himself say. "Yeah, I'm buying it."

Clarke pumped her fist in the air. "Yes! Best friend of the year award, right here. I deserve a medal for this."

"You deserve a raise," Beck muttered, and Clarke laughed, bright and loud, the sound bouncing off the racks of silk and lace.

"Go get dressed," she said, waving him back toward the fitting room. "I'll grab the price tag and meet you at the register. And Beck?"

He paused, one hand on the velvet curtain. "Yeah?"

"Don't chicken out." Clarke's voice had gone soft, the teasing edge gone. "You deserve this. And he deserves to see you like this."

Beck's throat tightened. He nodded, not trusting his voice, and slipped back behind the curtain.

The fitting room was exactly how he'd left it—his jeans folded on the bench, his shirt on top of them, the black silk robe he'd picked up earlier still waiting. He looked at the robe, then at himself in the mirror, at the green lace that made him feel like someone he didn't quite recognize.

He reached for the hook at the back of the top, and his fingers fumbled with the clasp. It took him three tries to get it undone, and when the lace fell away from his chest, the air hit his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms.

He changed quickly, pulling his boxers up first, then his jeans, then his shirt. The familiar fabric settled against him like a second skin, and for a moment, he almost felt like himself again—same hockey camp t-shirt, same worn jeans, same sandy hair that never quite stayed where he put it.

But the green lace was still in his hands, warm and impossibly soft, and he couldn't stop looking at it.

He folded it carefully, the way he'd fold a jersey after a big game, and tucked it under his arm. The black silk robe sat on the bench, still waiting.

Beck looked at it. He looked at the lace in his arms. He looked at the robe again.

The robe was beautiful—simple, elegant, the kind of thing that would feel like a whisper against his skin. But it wasn't the green set. It wasn't the statement. It wasn't the thing that would make Topher's eyes go dark and hungry.

He picked up the robe anyway, smoothing out the fabric with a hand that wasn't quite steady. It had been the first thing he'd grabbed, drawn to it without thinking, and he couldn't quite bring himself to leave it behind.

Maybe that was the thing about loving someone. You wanted to give them everything. The bold thing and the quiet thing. The statement and the whisper.

Beck stepped out of the fitting room, the green lace tucked under one arm and the black silk draped over the other. Clarke was waiting by the register, holding a small white tag between her fingers, and her grin widened when she saw him.

"Both of them?" she asked, and there was something warm in her voice, something that made Beck's chest ache.

"Both of them," he confirmed.

"Good choice." Clarke held up the tag. "130 dollars for the set. That leaves you twenty for the robe."

Beck's stomach dropped. "Twenty dollars? The robe's more than that."

"It was on clearance." Clarke shrugged. "Forty percent off. You're in luck, babe."

Beck looked at the robe in his arms, at the smooth black silk that had caught his eye ten minutes ago. He looked at the green lace, at the promise of Topher's hands tracing that strip of bare spine.

He pulled out his wallet, counting the bills with careful fingers. A hundred Fifty dollars, exactly. He'd budgeted for this. He'd planned for this. And here it was, both things he wanted, both things he couldn't imagine leaving behind.

"Okay," he said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. "Let's do it."

The sales associate—the same woman who'd watched him with patient amusement—rang up the green set first, her fingers moving over the register with practiced ease. The tag beeped. The total flashed on the screen. Beck handed over the bills, watching them disappear into the drawer, and when the associate handed him the bag, it felt heavier than it should have.

"Thank you," he said, and his voice came out soft, almost shy.

The associate smiled, and this time, there was no amusement in it. Just warmth. "Happy birthday to your fiancé," she said, and Beck felt his face go red.

"Thanks," he managed, and Clarke grabbed his arm, steering him toward the door before he could say anything else.

The bell above the door chimed as they stepped out into the late afternoon sun. The air was warm, carrying the smell of cut grass and exhaust, and Beck blinked against the brightness, still holding the bag like it might shatter if he squeezed too hard.

Clarke looped her arm through his, her pink curls brushing against his shoulder. "So," she said, and her voice was light, teasing, "when are you gonna give it to him?"

Beck's heart did something complicated in his chest. "His birthday's in three days."

"Three days." Clarke whistled low. "You're gonna be a wreck until then."

"I know." Beck laughed, and it came out a little breathless. "I'm already a wreck."

They walked in silence for a moment, the bag swinging gently between them. Beck could feel the weight of it, the green lace and the black silk, both of them waiting for Topher's hands.

"Hey," Clarke said, and her voice had gone soft again. "You know he's gonna love it, right? Whatever you give him. He's gonna love it because it's from you."

Beck's throat tightened. "I know."

"But also, he's gonna love it because you're gonna look like a goddamn snack in it." Clarke grinned, and Beck shoved her, laughing despite himself.

"You're the worst," he said.

"You love me."

"I do." Beck's voice came out softer than he meant it to. "I really do."

They reached the corner, and Clarke squeezed his arm before letting go. "Text me when you give it to him. I want to hear every detail."

"Clarke—"

"Every. Detail." She was already backing away, her grin wide and wicked. "I'm living vicariously through you, babe. Don't let me down."

Beck shook his head, but he was smiling. "I'll text you."

"You better." Clarke turned, her pink curls bouncing as she walked away, and Beck watched her go until she disappeared around the corner.

The bag felt heavier with her gone, the weight of what was inside settling into his palm like a puck he was afraid to drop. Beck shifted it from one hand to the other and started walking, the late afternoon sun warm on his shoulders, the street sounds filling the space where Clarke's voice had been. He passed a coffee shop and caught his reflection in the window—same guy, same worn hockey camp t-shirt, same stubble he kept meaning to shave. But he knew what was in the bag. He knew what he'd look like in three days, and the knowing made his reflection feel like a stranger.

He checked his phone. No messages. Topher was still at the camp, running intake forms for the new session, and Beck had texted him a picture of a sad sandwich from a gas station an hour ago with the caption *this is what you leave me to eat when you're working late*. Topher had replied with a single laughing emoji and *you're the one who chose the gas station*. Beck smiled at the memory, at the ease of it, at the way three days could feel like both forever and no time at all.

Their apartment was quiet when he let himself in, the way it always was when Topher wasn't home. Beck kicked off his shoes by the door, hung his keys on the hook, and carried the bag straight to the bedroom. He closed the door behind him, even though there was no one to see, and pulled the green lace out of the tissue paper. It looked different in the low light of their bedroom—softer, more intimate, like something that belonged between them and no one else. He held it up, let the fabric catch the light, and thought about Topher's hands. Those precise, gentle, impossibly strong hands that had mapped every knot in Beck's shoulders, that had held his face during their first kiss, that had slid down his back on a hundred different nights. Those hands were going to touch this lace.

His throat went tight. He hung the set in the back of his closet, behind his jackets, where Topher wouldn't find it, and laid the black silk robe on the top shelf. Then he stood there, empty-handed, and felt something shift in his chest. It wasn't nerves, exactly. It was anticipation, sharp and sweet, the same feeling he got right before a big game—except this time he wasn't chasing a win. He was chasing the look on Topher's face.

He was still standing there when his phone buzzed. Topher: *Running late. You want dinner from that Thai place or should I just pick up something?* Beck stared at the message, at the casual ordinariness of it, and felt his heart do that thing again. He typed back: *Thai. And hurry home.* A pause. Then: *Miss you.* He hit send before he could overthink it, and Topher's reply came almost instantly: *Miss you too, gorgeous . Twenty minutes.*

Beck pocketed his phone and looked around the bedroom. The bag from the lingerie shop was crumpled on the floor, and he bent to pick it up, smoothing the paper before tucking it into the recycling bin. He caught his reflection in the mirror on the closet door—still the same guy, still the same t-shirt, but there was something different in his eyes. Something that hadn't been there this morning. He thought about the green lace waiting in the dark, about the black silk folded on the top shelf, about the way Topher's hands would feel when they found them.

Three days. He could make it three days.

He told himself he wouldn't. He'd already hung it up, already smoothed the tissue paper into the recycling bin, already stood in front of the mirror and told himself three days was nothing. Three days was a shift at the camp, a few meals, a handful of hours of sleep. Three days was nothing.

His hand was on the closet door before he'd finished the thought.

The hanger clicked against the rod. The green lace slid out from behind his jackets, and Beck held it up to the light from the bedroom window. The low afternoon sun caught the fabric, turning the deep green almost translucent at the edges, and Beck watched the way the light moved through the cutout at the back. That teardrop of empty space where his spine would show. Where Topher's thumb would rest.

His mouth went dry.

He'd seen the set on the hanger in the shop, had pictured it in the harsh fluorescent light of the fitting room, and it had made his knees buckle then. But this—this was different. This was their bedroom. This was the bed where Topher had held him through a hundred nights, the mirror where Beck had watched Topher's hands work the knots out of his shoulders after practice. This was the place where the green lace would actually live, would actually be worn, would actually come off.

Beck turned the set over in his hands. The lace was softer than he'd expected, almost delicate, and he could feel the give in the fabric where it would stretch across his chest. He'd never worn anything like this. He'd never even thought about wearing anything like this. But Clarke had held it up in the shop with that wicked grin, and Beck had felt something crack open in his chest, something he hadn't known was there.

He wanted Topher to see him like this. Wanted Topher's hands to find the lace and the skin beneath it. Wanted to watch Topher's grey eyes go dark and hungry in a way Beck had only ever caught glimpses of, in the low light of their bedroom, in the space between one breath and the next.

Beck glanced at the door. Closed. The apartment was quiet. Topher wasn't due for another twenty minutes, and the Thai place was on the other side of town. He had time. He had more than enough time.

His fingers found the hem of his t-shirt. The worn cotton smelled like the camp, like sweat and ice and the particular musk of the rink, and Beck pulled it over his head and let it fall to the floor. The air hit his bare chest, cool and sharp, and he caught his reflection in the mirror and had to look away.

This was ridiculous. He was a hockey player. He had broad shoulders and thick thighs and a scar on his left knee from a bad hit in junior year. He wasn't the kind of person who wore lace. He wasn't the kind of person who stood in front of a mirror in his own bedroom, holding a green lingerie set like it was something precious.

But Topher's birthday was in three days. And Beck would do anything to see the look on Topher's face.

He stepped into the bottoms first. The fabric slid up his thighs, cool and smooth, and Beck had to grip the waistband to keep his hands from shaking. The lace settled against his hips, and he looked down at himself, at the way the deep green stood out against his skin, at the way the fabric hugged his thighs in a way his hockey shorts never did. He felt exposed. He felt ridiculous. He felt something else, something that made his face go hot and his stomach tighten.

The top was harder. Beck fumbled with the straps, his fingers clumsy in a way they never were on the ice, and when he finally got it on, the lace settled against his chest like it had been made for him. It was cut low, the fabric dipping between his pecs, and the back was nothing but a thin band of lace that crossed his shoulder blades before disappearing into the cutout. Beck turned to the mirror and felt his breath leave him in a rush.

The green lace traced the lines of his body like a second skin. It hugged his chest, his waist, his hips, and the teardrop cutout at the back showed a strip of bare spine that made Beck's own throat go tight. He looked like something from one of Clarke's magazines. He looked like something Topher would want to unwrap.

Beck's hands came up to trace the lace at his chest, and he watched himself in the mirror, watched the way his fingers moved over the fabric like he was memorizing it. He thought about Topher's hands. Those precise, gentle, impossibly strong hands that had mapped every knot in Beck's shoulders, that had held his face during their first kiss, that had slid down his back on a hundred different nights. Those hands were going to touch this lace. Those hands were going to find the cutout at the base of his spine and slip beneath it, and Beck was going to feel Topher's calloused fingers against his bare skin, and he was going to fall apart.

The thought made his cock twitch, and Beck looked down at himself, at the way the lace strained against the growing shape of his arousal, and he laughed out loud, a short, breathless sound that echoed in the quiet room.

"Jesus," he muttered. "Get it together."

He didn't get it together. He turned to the side, watching the way the cutout showed the curve of his lower back, the way the lace rode the line of his hip. He imagined Topher standing behind him, imagined Topher's hands coming to rest on that bare strip of skin, imagined Topher's voice going low and rough in that way it did when Beck had been working late and Topher had been waiting up.

"You wore this for me?"

Beck's throat went tight. He could hear it, the exact cadence of Topher's voice, the way he'd draw out the last word like he was tasting it.

"Yeah," Beck would say, and his voice would come out rough, and Topher would step closer, and his hands would find the lace at Beck's chest, and—

Beck had to grip the edge of the dresser to steady himself. His reflection stared back at him, green lace and flushed skin and eyes that looked almost wild. He looked like a man who was about to do something reckless. He looked like a man who was about to give his fiancé the best birthday present he'd ever gotten.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and Beck jumped, his heart slamming against his ribs. He grabbed the phone, half-expecting to see Topher's name, already reaching for an excuse, but it was Clarke.

*Did you try it on yet?*

Beck stared at the message. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, and he thought about lying, thought about typing *no, of course not, that's weird*, but he was standing in his bedroom in a green lace set with his cock half-hard and his heart pounding, and he couldn't bring himself to lie.

*Maybe,* he typed.

Clarke's reply came almost instantly. *OH MY GOD. SEND A PICTURE.*

Beck laughed, the sound escaping him before he could stop it. *Absolutely not.*

*COWARD. How does it look?*

Beck looked at his reflection again. The green lace caught the light. The cutout showed a strip of bare spine. He looked like something Topher would want to unwrap.

*It looks good,* he typed, and his fingers felt clumsy on the screen. *Really good.*

*I KNEW IT. Topher's gonna lose his mind.*

Beck smiled, and something warm settled in his chest. *You think?*

*Beck. Babe. Sweetheart. He's been in love with you since freshman year. He's gonna see you in that and forget his own name.*

Beck read the message twice. He thought about Topher's hands. He thought about the way Topher looked at him sometimes, when he thought Beck wasn't watching, like Beck was something precious and unexpected and entirely too good to be true. He thought about the green lace against his skin, and the cutout at the base of his spine, and the way Topher's thumb would fit perfectly in that empty space.

*Thanks, Clarke,* he typed. *For... you know. Everything.*

*Don't get sappy on me. Just make sure you text me every detail after.*

Beck laughed again, and he was still smiling when he set the phone down. He turned back to the mirror, and the green lace caught the light, and he let himself imagine it. Three days from now. Topher's birthday. The candles on the cake Clarke had insisted on helping him bake. The look on Topher's face when Beck pulled him into the bedroom and let the black silk robe fall open.

His cock twitched again, and Beck pressed his palm against it through the lace, his breath catching at the sensation. The fabric was thin, almost translucent, and he could feel the heat of his own skin through it. He imagined Topher's hand replacing his, imagined Topher's fingers tracing the outline of his cock through the lace, imagined Topher's voice going low and rough.

"You wore this for me?"

Beck's hand moved, slow, and he watched himself in the mirror, watched the way his hips shifted, watched the way his mouth fell open. He was getting hard, the lace straining against him, and he knew he should stop, knew he should take the set off and hang it back in the closet and wait the three days like a reasonable person. But his hand kept moving, and the lace felt good against his skin, and he couldn't stop thinking about Topher's hands.

The sound of a key in the front door cut through the quiet like a blade.

Beck froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. The key turned, the lock clicked, and Beck heard the door swing open, heard Topher's voice call out, warm and familiar, "Beck? You home?"

Beck's eyes went wide. He looked at his reflection—green lace, flushed skin, hand pressed against his half-hard cock—and then he was moving, scrambling across the room, his fingers fumbling with the straps of the top. The lace caught on his shoulders, and he swore under his breath, yanking it free and grabbing for the hanger. The set slipped from his fingers, and he caught it, shoved it onto the hanger, and threw it into the closet, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

"Beck?" Topher's voice was closer now, in the hallway. "You okay in there?"

Beck grabbed his t-shirt from the floor and yanked it over his head, the worn cotton settling against his skin. He could still feel the lace against his chest, phantom and electric, and he pressed a hand to his sternum like he could push the feeling away. He caught his reflection in the mirror—same guy, same t-shirt, same flushed face—and he took a breath. Then another.

"Yeah," he called, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. "Just—just changing. Be out in a second."

He heard Topher's soft laugh, the one that crinkled his grey eyes. "Okay. I got the Thai. It's still hot."

Beck stood in the middle of the bedroom, his heart still pounding, the ghost of the green lace still warm against his skin. He could hear Topher moving around in the kitchen, the rustle of takeout bags, the clink of plates. He could hear the ordinary sounds of their ordinary life, and he wanted to press his face into Topher's shoulder and breathe in the smell of eucalyptus and athletic tape.

He looked at the closet door. The green lace was hidden in the dark, waiting. Three days. He could make it three days.

He could still feel it against his skin.

He heard his own breath leave him, slow and deliberate, and he pressed both palms flat against his thighs. Three days. He could make it three days. He'd survived two-a-days in August heat, survived the playoffs, survived asking Topher to give up his clinic and come build something from nothing with him. He could survive a closet full of green lace.

He crossed the bedroom, and his feet knew the way even though his mind was still half-tangled in the mirror. The hallway light was warm, spilling from the kitchen, and he could smell the Thai food now, the sharp tang of lemongrass and chili, the familiar comfort of their Thursday-night takeout ritual. Topher was humming. Something low and tuneless, the way he did when he was happy, and Beck's chest ached with how much he loved that sound.

He stopped in the kitchen doorway.

Topher was at the counter, back to him, reaching for plates on the top shelf. He was still in his physio scrubs, the navy ones that had a small tear at the knee from kneeling beside a kid on the ice earlier, and his dark hair was falling into his eyes the way it always did at the end of a shift. He had his weight on his toes, one hand braced on the counter, and Beck watched the lean line of his back, the way his shoulder blades moved under the fabric, and he thought about those hands.

He thought about those hands finding the cutout at the base of his spine.

"Hey," Beck said, and his voice came out rough, and Topher turned.

His grey eyes caught the light, and his face broke into that smile, the one that crinkled the corners and made Beck feel like the only person in the room. "Hey, you. Food's getting cold."

Beck didn't look at the food. He crossed the kitchen in three steps, and Topher's smile flickered, just for a second, a question in his eyes, and then Beck had his hands on Topher's shoulders, had him backed against the counter, and he was kissing him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was the kind of kiss Beck had been holding back since the key turned in the lock, since the green lace had settled against his skin, since he'd stood in the fitting room and imagined Topher's hands on that bare strip of spine. He kissed Topher like he was starving, like the three days until his birthday were a lifetime, and Topher made a soft sound against his mouth, his hands coming up to grip Beck's hips.

"Beck," Topher breathed, and Beck kissed him again, deeper, one hand sliding up into the dark hair at the nape of Topher's neck. He tasted like coffee and the mint he always chewed after sessions, and Beck wanted to drown in it.

Topher's hands tightened on his hips, and he pulled Beck closer, and Beck felt the solid warmth of him through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, felt the steady beat of Topher's heart against his own. He kissed Topher until he couldn't breathe, until the panic and the lace and the three days all bled into the heat of Topher's mouth, and then he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against Topher's.

Topher's eyes were dark, and his breath came a little fast, and he was smiling, that soft confused smile that Beck loved more than anything in the world. "Not that I'm complaining," he said, "but what was that for?"

Beck's heart was still pounding. He could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the places where his body pressed against Topher's. He thought about lying, about making up some excuse about a good practice or a good mood, but Topher was looking at him with those grey eyes, patient and warm, and Beck had never been able to lie to him.

"Just—" Beck started, and his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Just missed you. That's all."

Topher's smile softened. He brought one hand up, the one with the callus on the pad of his thumb from years of working with athletes, and he brushed it along Beck's jaw. "I was gone for two hours, gorgeous ."

"Two hours too long."

Topher laughed, that low warm sound that made Beck's stomach flip. "Okay, come on. Sit down. Eat something before it gets cold."

Beck didn't move. He stood there, hands still on Topher's shoulders, and he could feel the ghost of the lace against his own skin, the phantom pressure of the cutout against his spine. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell Topher about the shop, about the green lace and the black silk and the way he'd stood in the fitting room and imagined those hands on his bare skin. He wanted to tell him everything.

But three days. He could make it three days.

"Yeah," he said, and he let his hands drop, and he stepped back. "Yeah. Food."

Topher studied him for a moment, that quiet observant look he got sometimes, like he was reading a body the way he read a muscle spasm, looking for the knot hidden beneath the surface. Beck felt seen in a way that made his face go hot, and he turned toward the table, reaching for the takeout bags to give his hands something to do.

"Hey," Topher said, and Beck turned back. Topher was still against the counter, arms crossed now, head tilted. "You okay? You seem... off."

Beck's heart stuttered. "I'm fine. Just tired."

Topher's eyes narrowed, just a fraction, and Beck knew that look. That was the look Topher got before he asked a question he already knew the answer to, the look he got when he was about to be gentle and relentless at the same time. Beck braced himself.

"You were in the bedroom for a while," Topher said. "What were you doing in there?"

Beck's mouth went dry. He thought about the green lace, shoved into the closet, the hanger still slightly askew. He thought about his reflection, flushed and wild-eyed, the cutout showing a strip of bare spine. He thought about his hand pressed against his half-hard cock through the thin fabric.

"Just changing," he said, and his voice came out a little too high. "Like I said."

Topher's eyebrow arched. "You're wearing the same shirt you had on this morning."

Beck looked down at himself. He was. The worn cotton of his hockey camp t-shirt, the one with the small coffee stain near the hem that Topher kept telling him to throw out. He'd yanked it on over the lace, and he hadn't even thought about it, and now Topher was looking at him with that knowing grey gaze, and Beck felt his face go hot all the way to his ears.

"I—" he started, and then he stopped. He had nothing. He had absolutely nothing.

Topher's mouth twitched. "Beck."

"It's a surprise," Beck blurted, and the words came out before he could stop them. "For your birthday. It's—I'm not—you can't—"

He was babbling, and he knew he was babbling, and Topher was definitely smiling now, that warm crooked smile that made Beck's knees weak. "A surprise," Topher repeated, like he was tasting the word. "For my birthday."

"Yes." Beck's voice came out strangled. "So you can't—you have to pretend you didn't notice anything. You have to act normal."

"Normal," Topher said. "I can do that."

"You can't ask questions."

"No questions."

"And you can't—" Beck gestured vaguely at himself, at the t-shirt, at the closet, at the entire situation. "You can't look at me like that."

Topher's smile widened. "Like what?"

"Like you know something."

"I don't know anything," Topher said, and he pushed off the counter, crossing the kitchen in two easy strides. He stopped in front of Beck, close enough that Beck could smell the eucalyptus and athletic tape, that familiar scent that made his chest ache. Topher reached up and brushed a strand of hair off Beck's forehead, his fingers lingering for a moment against Beck's temple. "I'm just a man who's hungry for Thai food and very excited about his birthday."

Beck's throat tightened. "You're not going to guess?"

"I'm going to let you surprise me." Topher's hand dropped, and he turned toward the table, reaching for the takeout bags. "Now sit down before the noodles turn into one solid block."

Beck stood there for a moment, heart pounding, watching Topher's back as he moved around the kitchen. He'd almost blown it. He'd almost told him everything, right there in the kitchen, and now Topher was going to spend the next three days knowing that Beck was hiding something, and Beck was going to spend the next three days trying not to think about the green lace in the closet.

He sat down at the table. Topher set a plate in front of him, and Beck watched his hands, those strong precise hands, and he thought about them on his bare spine, and he had to look away.

"So," Topher said, settling into the chair across from him, "how was the rest of your day?"

Beck picked up his fork. "Good. Fine. Normal."

Topher's grey eyes glinted. "Normal."

"Totally normal."

"Nothing unusual happened."

"Nothing at all."

Topher took a bite of his pad thai, chewed, swallowed. "You know, for a guy who had a totally normal day, you're blushing a lot."

Beck's hand flew to his face. His skin was hot under his palm, and Topher was smiling at him over his noodles, and Beck wanted to sink through the floor.

"Shut up," he said, and Topher laughed.

It was the sound Beck loved most in the world, that warm unguarded laugh that made Topher's eyes crinkle and his shoulders shake. Beck watched him laugh, watched the way the kitchen light caught the grey of his eyes, and he thought about the green lace, and he thought about three days from now, and he thought about the look on Topher's face when Beck pulled him into the bedroom and let the black silk robe fall open.

He could make it three days.

He could absolutely make it three days.

Topher set down his fork and reached for his water glass, and Beck watched his throat move as he swallowed, and he thought about pressing his mouth there, about tasting the salt of his skin, about the way Topher's breath would catch if Beck kissed him just below the jaw.

"Hey," Beck said, and his voice came out rough. "Did you get the intake forms done? For the new kids?"

Topher looked up, a slight crease between his brows. "The intake forms. Yeah, I finished them this morning. Why?"

Beck shrugged, trying to look casual. "Just wondering. We need them before the session starts on Monday."

"They're on my desk," Topher said. "I'll bring them to the office tomorrow."

Beck nodded. He picked up his fork, pushed a piece of chicken around his plate. He could feel Topher's gaze on him, that quiet observant look, and he knew he wasn't fooling anyone, knew Topher could read him like a muscle map, knew every knot and tension in Beck's body was visible to those grey eyes.

"Beck," Topher said, and his voice was soft, and Beck looked up. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Beck's heart squeezed. "I know."

"Whatever it is. Whatever you're thinking about." Topher set his elbows on the table, leaned forward. "You don't have to wait for my birthday."

Beck's throat went tight. He thought about the green lace, about the cutout at the base of his spine, about the way he'd pressed his palm against his cock through the thin fabric and imagined Topher's hand in its place. He thought about the look on Topher's face if Beck stood up right now, walked to the closet, and came back wearing nothing but the lace and the robe.

But it was supposed to be a surprise. It was supposed to be perfect. Topher had given up everything for him, his clinic, his stability, his whole life, and Beck wanted to give him something perfect, something that would make those grey eyes go dark with want, something that would show Topher exactly how much he meant to him.

"I know," Beck said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. "I just—I want it to be good. That's all. I want it to be perfect."

Topher's expression softened. He reached across the table and took Beck's hand, his thumb brushing over Beck's knuckles, and Beck felt the callus on his palm, the familiar warmth of his grip.

"It will be," Topher said. "Whatever it is. It'll be perfect."

Beck looked at their joined hands, at the way Topher's fingers fit between his, at the way the kitchen light caught the silver of his engagement ring. He thought about three days from now, about the look on Topher's face, about the green lace against his skin and Topher's hands finding the cutout at the base of his spine.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

Topher squeezed his hand once, then let go, reaching for his fork. "Eat your noodles, gorgeous . They're getting cold."

Beck picked up his fork. He took a bite, and the flavors hit his tongue, lemongrass and chili and lime, and he chewed and swallowed and took another bite. Across the table, Topher was eating his pad thai, humming that low tuneless hum, and Beck watched him and thought about the green lace in the closet and the black silk robe on the top shelf and the three days stretching out between now and the moment he got to see Topher's face.

He could make it.

He could absolutely make it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Beck pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Clarke.

*Did you tell him?*

Beck typed back, one-handed, his other hand still holding his fork. *No. Almost. He almost caught me.*

*OH NO. What happened?*

*He noticed I was acting weird. I said it was a surprise.*

*SMOOTH. Did he buy it?*

Beck glanced at Topher across the table. Topher was watching him, a slight smile on his face, and Beck felt his face go hot.

*I think so. He's being very suspiciously normal about it.*

*That's because he knows you're hiding something and he's waiting for you to crack.*

Beck groaned, and Topher's smile widened. "Clarke?" he asked.

"Yeah." Beck shoved his phone back in his pocket. "She says hi."

"Tell her I said hi back." Topher took another bite of his noodles. "And tell her I'm very excited about my birthday."

Beck's heart stuttered. "You don't even know what it is."

"I know it's going to be good." Topher's grey eyes glinted. "Because you're the one giving it to me."

Beck looked down at his plate, his face burning. He could feel Topher's gaze on him, warm and knowing, and he thought about the green lace, and he thought about the cutout at the base of his spine, and he thought about the way Topher's hands would feel when they finally found it.

Three days.

He could make it three days.

He took another bite of his noodles, and across the table, Topher hummed his low tuneless hum, and the kitchen was warm and ordinary and full of the smell of Thai food, and Beck's heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

His phone buzzed again, insistent against his thigh, and Beck slid it out of his pocket and under the edge of the table in one motion, keeping his eyes on his noodles. Topher was humming again, that low tuneless sound he made when he was content, and Beck could feel the weight of the silence between them like a held breath.

He angled the screen toward his lap, squinting at the brightness.

*What do you mean suspiciously normal?* Clarke had typed. *Like, suspiciously normal normal? Or suspiciously normal like he knows?*

Beck glanced across the table. Topher was twirling noodles around his fork with the kind of unhurried focus he gave everything, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and Beck's chest did that stupid squeeze it always did when he watched Topher do literally anything.

He typed back: *He said he's "very excited about his birthday."*

The reply came so fast Beck's phone vibrated in his hand.

*BECK. That's code. That's definitely code.*

*Code for what?*

*Code for he knows you got him something and he's already planning how he's gonna thank you.*

Beck's face went hot. He could feel it, the burn climbing from his collarbone to his ears, and he shoved a forkful of noodles into his mouth to give himself something to do that wasn't thinking about Topher thanking him.

*He's not gonna thank me,* he typed, one thumb moving fast, the other hand wrapped around his fork like a shield. *He's gonna open it and I'm gonna die.*

*You're not gonna die, babe. You're gonna put on that green lace and he's gonna eat you alive.*

Beck choked.

It wasn't a small choke. It was a full, throat-closing, noodle-going-down-the-wrong-pipe choke, and he coughed so hard his eyes watered, his hand flying to his mouth as he hacked into his fist.

"You okay?" Topher's fork clinked against his plate.

Beck nodded, still coughing, his eyes streaming. He waved his free hand, the one not clutching his phone, and grabbed for his water glass. The water was lukewarm and it did nothing, but he drank it anyway, feeling the noodles shift painfully in his throat.

"Fine," he managed, his voice cracking. "Went down the wrong pipe."

Topher's grey eyes were on him, steady and unreadable, and Beck felt the familiar heat of being seen, of those eyes reading him like a chart, mapping every twitch and tell.

"You've got something on your chin," Topher said.

Beck swiped at his face. His hand came away with a smear of peanut sauce.

"Got it," he said, and his voice sounded strangled even to his own ears.

Topher didn't look away. He just sat there, his fork resting on the edge of his plate, watching Beck with that quiet observant patience that made Beck want to confess everything, right there, the green lace, the cutout, the way he'd pressed his palm against himself in the fitting room and imagined those physiotherapist hands finding the bare strip of skin at the base of his spine.

His phone buzzed again.

Beck looked down, grateful for the excuse to break Topher's gaze. Clarke had sent another message.

*You choked. That's adorable. Tell him you're fine and change the subject before he asks what you're hiding.*

Beck's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could feel Topher's attention on him, a warm weight, and he knew he was being too obvious, knew the silence was stretching too long, knew Topher could see the glow of the phone screen reflected in his eyes.

*I'm fine,* he typed. *He's looking at me.*

*Good. Let him look. You're hot.*

Beck almost choked again. He swallowed it down, forcing himself to take another bite of noodles, chewing slowly, deliberately, like a man who did not have a phone full of his best friend telling him his fiancé was going to eat him alive.

"Clarke's giving you a hard time?" Topher asked, and his voice was light, casual, but there was something underneath it, something Beck couldn't quite name.

"She's just—" Beck's voice came out too high. He cleared his throat. "She's being Clarke."

Topher's mouth twitched. "That bad, huh?"

"She's asking about the surprise," Beck said, and the words came out before he could stop them, and he felt his face go hot again, because he'd just admitted that there was a surprise, which Topher already knew, but now it was out there, hanging in the air between them like a dare.

Topher leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest, and Beck watched the way his biceps shifted under his scrub top, the lean, wiry strength of him, the hands that had mapped every inch of Beck's body, every knot and tension, every place he held his stress.

"A surprise," Topher repeated, and the word rolled off his tongue like he was tasting it. "For my birthday."

Beck's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. "Yeah."

"And you're not going to tell me what it is."

"It's a surprise."

Topher's eyes glinted, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm very good at surprises, you know. I could probably guess."

Beck's stomach dropped. "Don't."

"Don't guess?" Topher's voice was warm, teasing, and he uncrossed his arms, leaning forward again, his elbows on the table. "Or don't tell you what I think it is?"

"Both." Beck's voice came out strangled. "Definitely both."

Topher laughed. It was a low, warm sound, the kind of laugh that made Beck's toes curl in his socks, and he reached across the table and took Beck's hand again, his thumb brushing over Beck's knuckles, over the ring on his finger, the one that matched Topher's own.

"I'm not going to guess," Topher said, and his voice was softer now, gentler. "I told you. Whatever it is, it'll be perfect."

Beck looked at their joined hands. He thought about the green lace, the way it had felt against his skin in the fitting room, the cool silk sliding over his hips, the cutout at the base of his spine, the place where Topher's hands would find bare skin and nothing else.

Beck's thumb moved before his brain caught up, the phone sliding under the table edge like it weighed nothing, like Topher couldn't see the glow bleeding onto his lap.

*He knows,* he typed, fingers fumbling over the screen. *He's looking at me right now. He said he could guess.*

The phone buzzed almost instantly.

*LET HIM GUESS. You're literally wearing his ring. He's not gonna figure out you bought yourself lingerie.*

Beck's face went hot. He angled the screen away from Topher's line of sight, his thumb pressing hard against the glass.

*I'm not wearing it for me.*

*Uh huh. And who's gonna be the one putting it on?*

Beck's throat closed. He could feel the heat climbing up his neck, spreading across his cheeks, and he shoved another bite of noodles into his mouth to give himself something to do that wasn't thinking about Topher's hands on the green lace, those strong, precise fingers tracing the edges of the cutout, finding the bare skin at the base of his spine.

*You're not helping,* he typed.

*I'm helping so much. You just don't know it yet.*

*He's gonna ask what I'm laughing at.*

*Tell him it's a meme. Guys love memes.*

Beck snorted. It came out as a choked half-laugh, half-cough, and he felt Topher's gaze land on him like a physical weight.

"Something funny?" Topher asked, and his voice was light, casual, but there was a thread of amusement in it, a knowing edge that made Beck's stomach flip.

"Just—" Beck's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, his hand tightening around his fork. "Clarke sent me a meme."

"A meme." Topher's eyebrows rose. "You don't laugh at memes."

"I laugh at memes."

"You send me memes at three in the morning with no caption. You don't laugh at them."

Beck's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He could feel the lie crumbling in his hands, could feel Topher's grey eyes reading him like a chart, mapping every twitch and tell, and he knew he was being too obvious, knew he was blushing, knew the silence was stretching too long.

The phone buzzed again. Beck looked down, grateful for the excuse to break Topher's gaze.

*Did he ask? What did he say? Tell me everything.*

Beck's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could feel Topher's attention on him, a warm weight, and he knew he needed to say something, needed to fill the silence before it swallowed him whole.

*He asked what I was laughing at,* he typed. *I said meme. He called me out.*

*Called you out how?*

*Said I don't laugh at memes.*

*He's not wrong.*

Beck bit back a groan. He could feel Topher watching him, could feel the quiet patience in his gaze, and he knew he was running out of time, knew he needed to say something that didn't sound like a confession.

"It's a video," Beck said, and his voice came out too high. "A dog. It's—" He waved his hand vaguely. "It's a dog doing something. Funny."

Topher's mouth twitched. "A dog doing something funny."

"Yeah."

"And that made you laugh."

"Yeah."

"Out loud."

Beck's face went hot. "I was surprised."

"Show me," Topher said.

Beck's stomach dropped. "What?"

"The video. Show me."

"It's—" Beck's voice came out strangled. "It's on Clarke's phone. She sent it to me. I can't—"

"You can't show me a video that's on your phone?"

"It's a voice message," Beck said, and the words came out before he could stop them, and he felt his face go hot again, because that was even worse, because now Topher was going to ask to hear it, and Beck had nothing, nothing but a phone full of texts about lingerie and the burning knowledge that his fiancé was watching him lie.

"A voice message," Topher repeated, and his voice was slow, savoring the words like he was tasting them. "From Clarke."

"Yeah."

"Saying something funny."

"Yeah."

"Let me hear it."

Beck's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. "It's—" He swallowed. "It's private."

Topher's eyebrows rose. "Private."

"She's talking about—" Beck's voice cracked. "She's talking about something. Personal."

Topher's mouth curved into a slow smile, and Beck felt his stomach flip, felt the familiar heat of being seen, of those eyes reading him like a chart, mapping every twitch and tell.

"Personal," Topher repeated, and the word rolled off his tongue like he was tasting it. "About what?"

Beck's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He could feel the lie crumbling in his hands, could feel the heat climbing up his neck, spreading across his cheeks, and he knew he was being too obvious, knew he was blushing, knew the silence was stretching too long.

"Just—" He waved his hand vaguely. "Girl stuff."

Topher's smile widened. "Girl stuff."

"Yeah."

"Since when do you talk to Clarke about girl stuff?"

"Since—" Beck's voice came out too high. He cleared his throat. "She's my best friend. We talk about stuff."

"Stuff."

"Yeah."

Topher leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his grey eyes fixed on Beck's face with that quiet, observant patience that made Beck want to confess everything, right there, the green lace, the cutout, the way he'd pressed his palm against himself in the fitting room and imagined those physiotherapist hands finding the bare strip of skin at the base of his spine.

The phone buzzed again.

*Is he still looking at you?*

*Yes,* he typed. *He wants to hear the voice message.*

*What voice message?*

*The one I made up.*

*You made up a voice message?*

*I panicked.*

There was a pause. Then:

*BECK. That's the worst lie you've ever told. You're a terrible liar.*

*I know.*

*Tell him you'll show him later. Tell him it's embarrassing. Tell him you'll die if he hears it.*

Beck's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could feel Topher's attention on him, a warm weight, and he knew he was running out of time, knew he needed to say something that didn't sound like a confession.

*He's gonna know,* he typed. *He's gonna figure it out.*

*He's not gonna figure it out. He thinks you're bad at surprises. He thinks you're gonna get him a gift card.*

*He doesn't think that.*

*He does. I've seen the way he looks at you. He thinks you're adorable and terrible at keeping secrets.*

Beck's face went hot. He could feel the heat climbing up his neck, spreading across his cheeks, and he shoved another bite of noodles into his mouth to give himself something to do that wasn't thinking about Topher's hands on the green lace, those strong, precise fingers tracing the edges of the cutout, finding the bare skin at the base of his spine.

"Everything okay?" Topher asked, and his voice was light, casual, but there was something underneath it, something Beck couldn't quite name.

Beck nodded, his mouth full of noodles. He chewed slowly, deliberately, like a man who did not have a phone full of his best friend telling him his fiancé was going to eat him alive.

"Clarke's just—" He swallowed. "She's being Clarke."

Beck's throat tightened. He could feel the weight of Topher's hand in his, the warmth of his skin, the steady pressure of his thumb tracing circles over Beck's knuckles, and he thought about the green lace, the way it had felt against his skin in the fitting room, the cool silk sliding over his hips, the cutout at the base of his spine, the place where Topher's hands would find bare skin and nothing else.

The phone buzzed again.

*Did he say it? Did he say it'll be perfect?*

*Yeah,* he typed. *He said it.*

*And?*

*And I'm dying.*

*You're not dying. You're in love. There's a difference.*

Beck's face went hot. He could feel the heat climbing up his neck, spreading across his cheeks, and he shoved his phone into his pocket, the screen dark, the conversation cut off, and he looked up at Topher, at his grey eyes, at the quiet patience in his gaze, at the hands that had mapped every inch of Beck's body, every knot and tension, every place he held his stress.

"You okay?" Topher asked, and his voice was soft, gentle, and there was something underneath it, something Beck couldn't quite name.

Beck nodded. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, could feel the heat in his cheeks, could feel the weight of the secret pressing against his ribs, the green lace hidden in the closet, the cutout at the base of his spine, the place where Topher's hands would find bare skin and nothing else.

"Yeah," he said, and his voice came out steady, steadier than he felt. "I'm good."

Topher's mouth curved into a slow smile, and he squeezed Beck's hand, his thumb brushing over Beck's knuckles one last time before he let go and reached for his fork.

"Good," he said, and his voice was warm, casual, like he hadn't just seen straight through Beck's lie, like he hadn't just watched Beck fumble through a conversation about a voice message that didn't exist, like he didn't know exactly what Beck was hiding.

Beck's phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

He could feel Topher's gaze on him, a warm weight, and he knew he was being too obvious, knew he was blushing, knew the silence was stretching too long, but he couldn't help it. He thought about the green lace, the way it had felt against his skin in the fitting room, the cool silk sliding over his hips, the cutout at the base of his spine, the place where Topher's hands would find bare skin and nothing else.

And he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach flip, that Topher was going to find out.

He just didn't know when.

"Hey," Topher said, and his voice was light, casual, but there was something underneath it, something Beck couldn't quite name. "You want the last spring roll?"

Beck blinked. "What?"

"The spring roll. You want it?"

Beck looked down at the plate. There was one spring roll left, glistening with oil, sitting in a pool of sauce. He wasn't hungry. His stomach was a knot of nerves and anticipation, the green lace burning a hole in his chest, the secret pressing against his ribs.

"Sure," he said, and his voice came out too high. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Thanks."

Topher picked up the spring roll and held it out to him, his fingers brushing against Beck's as he took it, and Beck felt the familiar heat of contact, the warmth of Topher's skin, the steady pressure of his touch.

"You're welcome," Topher said, and his voice was soft, gentle, and there was something underneath it, something Beck couldn't quite name.

Beck took a bite of the spring roll. It was cold. He chewed anyway, feeling the crunch of the wrapper, the tang of the sauce, and he thought about the green lace, the way it had felt against his skin in the fitting room, the cool silk sliding over his hips, the cutout at the base of his spine, the place where Topher's hands would find bare skin and nothing else.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.