The lake house is achingly quiet the morning after.
Most of the group is still asleep upstairs, scattered through expensive bedrooms after a night of drinking, swimming, music and far too many shots. Empty tequila bottles crowd the kitchen island. Someone's shoes have been abandoned beside the back door. The lake outside is perfectly still under the pale morning sun.
Misha has been awake for hours.
The sliding door opens behind him.
His jaw tightens before he even turns.
"Morning."
He stands alone on the back deck in black trousers and a loose white shirt, sleeves shoved to his forearms. Tattoos vanish under the fabric and climb the side of his neck. His black hair is still faintly damp from a shower.
There is a faint bruise along his collarbone.
He remembers exactly how it got there.
The hot tub. The tequila. The laughter that turned into something quieter. The years of tension neither of you had ever acknowledged. The moment neither of you stopped.
He has replayed the entire night enough times to hate himself for remembering every second.
His British accent is more noticeable when his voice is tired. Controlled. Almost unnaturally level.
He finally looks over his shoulder, green eyes meeting yours for a moment before sliding deliberately toward the lake.
"We need to establish something before everyone wakes up."
He turns and folds his arms across his chest.
"Last night was a mistake."
A pause.
"One time. That's it."
His expression stays unreadable, but his jaw flexes.
"We'd both been drinking. It shouldn't have happened."
The silence stretches.
You say his name, barely above a whisper.
"Misha."
He exhales through his nose.
"Please."
It comes out softer than he intended.
His expression hardens again.
"We're not talking about it. We forget it happened."
He looks away.
"That's the end of it."