LEGO Ideas 21348: Dungeons & Dragons: Red Dragon's Tale
Early morning light cuts through the gap in the curtains, landing squarely on my face. I groan and roll over, straight into Peyton’s chest. He’s sprawled on his back in my bed, hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted, his arm thrown out across the pillow we’re supposed to be sharing.
For a second, I just stare. His mouth is half open, he’s breathing heavily, but not quite snoring. His legs are a mess of long lines under the rumpled sheet, one knee poking free.
My head throbs, and my tongue feels like it’s made of cotton. The smell of vodka still clings to my skin, mixed with sweat and Peyton. Everything about last night feels both too vivid and too unreal, like a dream I somehow have the soreness to prove.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him, but he stirs anyway, blinking blearily at me. A lazy grin spreads across his face, even before his eyes are fully open.
“Morning, sexy,” he croaks, voice wrecked from sleep and alcohol.
“Morning,” I mutter back, though my voice isn’t much better.
He stretches, the sheet sliding dangerously low on his hips. My gaze betrays me before I can look away, and his grin widens like he’s caught me red-handed.
“Like what you see?” he teases, voice still gravelly.
I grab the nearest pillow and whack at his face, though it doesn’t have much force behind it. “Shut up.”
Peyton laughs and catches the pillow before it drops to the floor, tucking it behind his head like I’d just handed it to him. “Violent way to say good morning,” he mutters, still smirking.
“You deserve it,” I shoot back, though the corners of my mouth betray me.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air is thick with the comfortable quiet that only comes from waking up next to that special someone. Then Peyton stretches again and sits up, rubbing at his hair. “God, I need a shower. I feel like I rolled around in a liquor store.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You smell like one, too.”
He glances at me, a sly glint in his tired eyes. “You’re not exactly fresh either, Chrissy. C’mon. You’re showering with me before we start smelling like the guys who don’t wear deodorant and only have one Con shirt.”
My brain feels like it's been rewired for a second, but before I can think, he’s already on his feet, tugging us both naked into the bathroom.
The bathroom fogs quickly, steam curling around the mirror. Peyton squeezes in beside me under the spray, grinning like he’s won some unspoken game. There’s no urgency, no rush like last night, just warm water and the easy press of his shoulder against mine. He steals my shampoo first, and when I grumble, he lathers my hair with exaggerated care, fingers dragging slow lines across my scalp. I return the favor by running soap over his back, the slick heat making us laugh more than anything else. It feels less like a hookup and more like a secret we’re learning how to share.
By the time we stumble out, dripping and flushed, Peyton wraps a towel around his waist like he owns the place and flicks it at me when I try to steal it. I mutter something about a sign in the bathroom about conserving towels, but the grin on his face makes it impossible to sound annoyed.
As we’re dressing for the day, I eye Peyton’s abandoned mint-green Nike shorts still on the floor. I pick them up, the soft nylon fabric rustling under my fingers.
Peyton, already pulling on his jeans, turns and sees me holding them. A slow grin spreads across his face. “I guess you want to wear those too?”
I thumb the elastic waistband through my fingers. “Can I?”
He chuckles. “As much as I’d like that, people might start giving us the side eye. I wore those most of yesterday, and they’re pretty distinctive.” He nods toward the shorts. “What if you just wore them under your pants?”
That sounds good enough to me, and I just nod. I can almost smell his scent still on them as I slip them on like a pair of boxers, the soft fabric a secret against my skin, before pulling my cargo pants on over them.
The hotel restaurant is buzzing. Half the room looks like they’ve come straight from Todd’s party: glassy-eyed, hunched over mugs of coffee, or inhaling pancakes like they’re life support. LEGO shirts dominate the tables, Front Range red, SEATAC green, and even a couple of Utah guys are still in their customized speed build shirts from last night. Bricks and badge lanyards spill across tabletops alongside plates of bacon and eggs.
Peyton attacks the continental breakfast buffet like it’s another competition, piling scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash browns high. I stick to toast and melon, my stomach still queasy from the vodka haze.
“You’re missing out,” Peyton mumbles through a mouthful of bacon, pointing his fork at me like I’m personally offending him.
“I’m recovering from last night,” I counter, chewing slowly.
He eyes my plate, then me, his grin softening as he leans closer and jabs his fork into one of my melon cubes. His voice dips so only I can hear it: “Fair. But usually when I’ve got a guy to bottom for me, I treat him right. Dinner, dessert, the works.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I tear off another piece of toast just to give my hands something to do. “I can't believe you just said that.”
As Peyton leans back, smug from stealing my melon cube, I unlock my phone just to give myself something to do.
On the screen, Hailey’s text from last night, sent at 1:17 a.m.
Hailey: He's cute. But I'm not jealous, though.
The smile drains off my face. The toast in my mouth turns to dust. For a moment, the whole restaurant blurs into background noise, clattering plates, people laughing over draft picks, Peyton humming happily around his fork.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I could show him. I could make a joke, brush it off. But the truth knots in my stomach: it isn’t really his business. Hailey, my family, the shadow of everything I leave behind at home, that’s mine to carry.
I lock the phone quickly and shove it back into my pocket, forcing myself to chew, swallow, breathe. Peyton doesn’t notice. He’s too busy constructing a monument of eggs and bacon, grinning like life’s simple.
I wish I could feel that light.
The feeling follows me out of the restaurant and back toward the convention hall, a low hum of anxiety beneath the soft rustle of the nylon shorts against my skin. I’m quieter, my hands shoved deep in my pockets.
Peyton notices the shift. He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Hey. You good?” he asks, his voice softer now, the earlier boisterous energy dialed back.
“Yeah,” I lie, offering a weak smile. “Too tired still to deal with the public admission today, no one better touch my ruins.”
He doesn’t press. He just nods, accepting it, and lets the comfortable silence settle between us again. He doesn’t know it, but that simple act, not pushing, makes me want to tell him everything.
As we step back into the roaring energy of the main hall, we check the attendee schedule near the registration desk. Peyton scans it, and his whole face lights up.
“Oh, hell yes. ‘The Basics of 3D Printed Elements.’ That’s at 10:30.” He looks at me, his excitement palpable. “We have to hit that.”
The idea is like a Lepin brick sticking out like a sore thumb. “3D printed? Why would you want to put that crap in a MOC? That’s not LEGO. It’s… heresy.”
Peyton rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, thinking I’m joking. “Oh, come on. It’s for stuff LEGO doesn’t make, like those oversized minifigures some of the vendors have for sale. You’re telling me you’ve never used a custom piece?”
“No,” I snap back, my reaction coming out unfiltered. The anxiety from the text curdles into stubbornness. “I’m a purist. The point is to build with what you’re given. It’s about creativity within the system.”
“The system is plastic bricks, Chris,” he says, an edge of frustration finally entering his voice. He gestures vaguely toward the vendor area. “It’s not like they’re copying something LEGO makes. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” I insist, digging my heels in. “It’s cheating. It defeats the entire purpose.”
Peyton’s smile finally vanishes and he tries to shrug it off. “Okay, fine. You can die on that hill of righteous Danish ABS. I’m going to go learn something that might prove useful.” He turns and starts heading toward the conference rooms. “Meet you after.”
The dismissal stings more than I expect. Annoyed, defensive, and wanting to prove a point, to him or to myself, I’m not sure, I turn and march in the opposite direction, straight into the bustling vendor aisle.
I walk with a purpose, my earlier vow of purity ringing hollow in my ears. I don't stop until I’m standing directly in front of the most famous, most prolific customizer booth of all: BlockArms.
The table is sprawling with tackle boxes full of an arsenal of pristine, highly detailed weaponry that LEGO would never produce: exact replicas of MP40s, Sten submachine guns, and M1 Garands. After going through the tackle boxes, I pick up a blister pack containing a perfectly molded Panzerschreck.
“So much for Gun Control, huh?” a voice says beside me. I glance over to see a guy in a Lone Star LUG shirt, holding a handful of AR-14s.
I feel my face flush. “For my next WWII display,” I mutter, defensively. “It’s for historical accuracy.”
I spend the next twenty minutes and forty dollars meticulously proving Peyton’s point for him, a growing pile of non-LEGO ABS clenched in my hand. Each addition to my collection feels like a tiny act of rebellion, but the hypocrisy sits in my gut, heavy as Lead.
I wander the vendor aisle for a while after that, the plastic bag feeling like a lead weight. I can’t bring myself to go to the 3D printing session, but I don’t want to run into Peyton yet either. The thrill of my defiant purchase has faded, leaving only the sour aftertaste of my own contradiction. Purist. The word echoes in my head, now sounding naive and rigid, even to me.
I’m pretending to be fascinated by an overpriced display of vintage Castle sets when a voice cuts through my self-pity.
“So this is where the purists hide out.”
I turn. Peyton is leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, but there’s no anger on his face. Just that familiar, infuriating, handsome smirk. His eyes dart down to the BlockArms bag in my hand.
My stomach plummets. Caught red-handed.
I open my mouth to spit out some weak defense, but he pushes off the pillar and steps closer, cutting me off.
“Wow. Hardcore purist, huh?” His smirk sharpens, but he doesn’t linger, doesn’t twist the knife. “Relax, Riddel. I didn’t come to roast you; they gave these as examples.”
Peyton holds out a 3D printed short monorail piece, something LEGO stopped making before we were even born. I can tell from the texture it’s not LEGO, but the detail looks accurate enough that it might actually work with the older pieces.
“See? Not the end of the world,” he says, his tone light, not gloating. He tucks the piece back into his pocket. “But look, I need a favor. One of the guys from the Rose City LUG just bailed from our PNW speed build team. Blamed it on the food poisoning from the Phở place across the street.
He nods toward the main hall. “It’s the new D&D set. The Red Dragon’s Tale. We need a sixth.”
I glare at him, my brain struggling to catch up. The argument, the hypocrisy, the bag of shame in my hand, none of it seems to matter to him. He’s just… moving on and offering me an invitation.
“A team speed build?” I finally manage. “Peyton, I’m not fast. I’ve never done one. I’ll just slow you down.”
“You don’t need to be the fastest,” he says, dismissing my concern with a wave of his hand. “We need someone who knows what goes where. Accurate. You saw those guys yesterday; they’re fast, but they mess up, with the wrong pieces sometimes. It’s even more important not to have to go back with a huge build like that,” He takes another step closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial grin. “Besides, I already told them I found our ringer. So you kinda have to say yes now.”
The flattery is blatant and completely effective. My defensiveness melts away, replaced by a nervous flutter in my chest. He believes I can do this. He vouched for me.
“What would I even do?” I ask, my resistance crumbling.
“We split the build into pairs,” he shoots back, the smirk returning full force. “I’ll be your partner, Parts Runner again. You just snap it together. Think you can handle that?”
The callback to our first work together, building the Singapore skyline in the hotel room, is a deliberate punch to the gut. It’s not just an offer; it’s a reminder of what we are together. A team.
I look down at the BlockArms bag, then back at his expectant face. The bag feels a little lighter now.
“Okay,” I say, a slow smile finally breaking through my own anxiety. “Okay, I’m in, just for you.”
“Awesome.” He claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “Now come on. I’ll introduce you to the team. Just be yourself, which is awesome.”
The speed build arena feels like a warzone waiting to happen: six banquet tables, six sealed 21348 Dungeons & Dragons: Red Dragon’s Tale sets gleaming under the fluorescents. I can’t stop staring at the huge boxes, glossy and untouched. Over two grand in LEGO just sitting there like bait.
“They’re really just giving us these?” I mutter.
Peyton shrugs. “Con budget. LEGO Support. Whatever. We don’t ask questions when the gods in Billund rain down bricks.”
Our table is already full. Ron, the wiry SEATAC guy in a Hawaiian shirt, who clearly runs point, has one hand on the sealed box like a general steadying his troops. Beside him, another SEATAC guy named Henry (stocky, bearded), Pauline in a lilac Spokane shirt, and the Canadian, Dennis, in his FraserLUG hoodie, all look keyed up, waiting for orders.
Ron clears his throat. “Alright. Here’s the battle plan. This thing comes with the first three booklets for the tavern, the tower, and the bridge. We pair off. First pair to finish? They start the dragon's body in the 4th booklet. As soon as the second pair is done, we rip the dragon booklet and split it, legs and wings, while the body’s going up. The third pair checks the base, poses minifigures, and supports wherever needed. Goal’s no downtime, no bottleneck.”
I blink. “You’re going to tear the instructions in half? Out of a set this expensive?”
Dennis chuckles. “Don’t worry, eh. We keep the build after. Instructions are just paper.”
“Paper worth $360,” I mutter, but Peyton just grins.
“Relax, Chris. We’ll figure out how to split it after. Unless you want the dragon all to yourself.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
Before I can reply, Adam steps to the center of the room with a bright orange Home Depot whistle. “Teams ready?”
A chorus of whoops and cheers.
“Three… two… one!”
The whistle shrieks, and the room explodes into chaos.
Six boxes hit six tables at once, seals shredded, cardboard lids flung wide. Bags tumble everywhere like a candy avalanche, rattling across the tables, spilling to the floor. Ron rips out the three fat instruction manuals and slaps the tavern booklet into Peyton’s hand.
“You two. Bar duty. Don’t screw it up.”
The adrenaline hits me like a bullet to the chest. Peyton’s already tearing into the first bag, dumping piles of tan, brown, and dark blue onto the table in front of me. I snatch up the instructions, hands shaking slightly, while the rest of the hall is a blur of crinkling plastic and shouted part calls.
“Here’s your keg,” Peyton says, tossing a round 2x2 barrel toward me like he’s dealing poker. “Careful, don’t drink this one.”
I roll my eyes, but my fingers snap the pieces together anyway, muscles remembering what to do before my brain catches up. Around us, every team is already in full war mode, voices rising over each other in the frantic sorting and slamming of bricks.
The tavern takes shape fast, tan plates locking into walls, dark brown beams bracing the corners. Peyton is relentless, ripping open numbered bags before I even finish the last step, sliding parts across the table with a grin that makes it feel like he’s running his own private commentary track.
“Bar’s stocked,” I mutter as I place the row of green bottles.
“Good,” Peyton fires back. “Don’t drink ‘em like last night. Pretty sure you were halfway gone before Todd even rolled out the Fireballs.”
My cheeks heat, but I focus on snapping stools into place, the rhythm of building keeping me steady.
When the second floor begins, the instructions shift to the little tavern bedroom, latticed windows, a small fireplace, and then the bed itself, all decked out with purple curves for bedding and a carved headboard that looks way too fancy for a place that smells like spilled ale. I click the last piece into place, admiring it despite myself.
“Well, would you look at that,” Peyton drawls, leaning in close. “Ornate. Comfy. Perfect for two.”
I snort. “It’s LEGO, Peyton. It’s four studs wide.”
“Yeah, and we still made it work last night,” he shoots back, smirk sharp as ever.
Heat shoots up my neck, but I keep building. The purple bedding catches the light, and for a second, I can’t look at it without remembering the warmth of the sheets we tangled in.
“PG, Mr. Mullins,” Ron warns after a few seconds. “It’s a family con.”
Dennis chuckles into his hoodie sleeve, and even Pauline smirks without looking up from her section.
Peyton raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning like he’s been caught red-handed. “What? I was talking about the minifigs. They can share.”
“Uh-huh,” Ron mutters, shaking his head before diving back into the tower
I duck my head, pretending to focus on a window piece while the soft rustle of nylon under my cargo pants makes me all too aware of just how not-PG last night really was.
Ron glances up again, eyebrow arched. “Seriously. Keep it together, Peyton.”
Peyton just smirks, leaning close enough that only I can hear him. “Can’t help it. You make it too easy.”
His grin lingers a second longer than it should, before he turns back to ripping open the next bag.
Ron works like a machine, his tower shooting upward brick by brick until he clicks the roof on with a triumphant slap of his palm. Without hesitation, he grabs the thickest of the four remaining instruction booklets, folds the spine back, and tears it straight down the middle.
I actually flinch. “You just..”
“Strategy, kid,” Ron cuts me off, sliding half the pages to Dennis without missing a beat. “We don’t waste time waiting for our turn.”
I shake my head, still wincing at the mutilated booklet. A $360 set, and they’re shredding it like scrap paper.
“Don’t cry, purist,” Peyton whispers at my shoulder. “We get to keep the build in the end, remember. Instructions are online anyway.”
Before I can argue, he nudges a fresh pile of red and black plates toward me. “C’mon, Chris, dragon legs. Our turn.”
The tavern is finished, standing proud with its purple-bedded loft, and now the real monster looms. The parts for the dragon’s base sprawl across the table like a crime scene. I take the half-booklet Ron tossed our way and scan the steps, heart thumping as I spot where we’ll start.
Peyton fans out the curved slopes and joint pieces, his grin widening as he fits the first hip socket into place. “Damn. These legs are beefy.” He leans sideways just enough to bump my knee under the table. “Not like yours in my new gym shorts.”
My face ignites. I keep my eyes on the instructions, snapping a thigh joint together a little too firmly. “You’re making this impossible.”
“Mmm, but efficient,” he says, sliding another piece into my hand. His smirk hasn’t left, but his hands move as quickly as ever, sorting and feeding me bricks like the world’s most distracting Parts Runner.
Around us, the roar of plastic and shouted calls builds into a frenzy, but all I can focus on is the dragon’s looming body taking shape, and the way Peyton’s banter sticks to me tighter than the nylon under my cargo pants.
The dragon rises fast now, its joints clicking together into hulking legs braced above the battlements below. Across the table, Pauline and Dennis are already halfway through the wings, their hands flying. Ron and Henry hammer away at the tail, its black spikes looking deadlier with every snap
The whole model is a blur of frantic energy, parts sliding back and forth, fingers darting, voices sharp and clipped.
“Ball joints!” Ron barks.
“Already sorted,” Peyton fires back, passing me a pile.
I wedge them into the sockets, and the legs snap upright, solid, weighty. Peyton steadies the dragon’s hip while I add the clawed feet, each talon curling like it’s ready to shred the tavern roof.
“Okay, that’s actually badass,” I mutter.
“Told you,” Peyton says, his grin lit up with pride. “Our guy’s gonna crush karaoke night if he doesn’t trip over those things first.”
Minutes blur. Wings attach. Tail segments thread into place like a chain. The head is the last piece, the final instruction page passed between too many hands at once. Pauline clicks the horns on with a triumphant slam, and Dennis snaps the lime-green bard minifigure into the door of the tavern.
“Done!” Ron shouts. The room erupts in cheers.
“Time!” Adam calls.
Our dragon looms completed, wings outstretched, fangs bared, the tavern nestled beneath its shadow. I lean back, heart pounding, sweat damp at my temples.
“Second place, PNW LUG!” Adam announces after a tense pause, holding up his clipboard. “Clean build, minimal corrections. Fantastic work!”
We all high-five across the table. Peyton grabs my wrist, pulling me into a quick hug before slapping my shoulder like we’ve just won the Super Bowl.
The Brickspo staff dump a bunch of grab bags onto our tables as prizes. The Utah team that placed first huddles around their dragon, already arguing over who gets what. Ron directs ours with the calm of someone who’s done this before.
“Alright,” he says, pulling out a bunch of Ziploc bags. “Pairs take their sections. Tavern for you two, tower for me and Henry, bridge for Pauline and Dennis. We’ll randomly draw for the figs.”
I blink. “Wait, we… we actually get to keep these?”
“Yup,” Peyton says, smug. “Told you. Gods of Billund.”
Ron passes around the sticky notes for the draw. Peyton scribbles quickly and tosses our initials into an empty box. Pauline draws first: Elf Wizard. Groans. Dennis gets the Cleric, grinning like he won the lottery. Ron pulls the Dragonborn, fist-pumping. Henry snags the Fighter. That leaves the Rogue and Merry sliding toward Peyton and me.
“Rogue fits,” Peyton says, flipping the minifig over in his palm. “Sneaky. Secretive.” He flashes me a look that makes my stomach flip. “Kind of like someone I know.”
I can’t even argue. Not when the tavern and the rogue minifig are pushed into our hands like trophies.
That night, the convention transforms into a sanctioned party. The breakout room fills with round tables draped in black, trays of finger food spread along the edges: sliders, chips, endless rows of Coke cans, and LaCroix. Laughter and chatter echo off the walls, the air thick with tired satisfaction.
We eat until the edge is gone, Peyton demolishing two sliders while I nurse a plate of nachos. Around us, people show off loot and swap badges like baseball cards.
And then Adam takes the mic again. “Ladies and gentlemen, Brickspo’s infamous Barefoot LEGO Walk is open in front of the stage!”
A crowd surges toward the stage, barefooters already tugging off shoes and socks.
“You in?” Peyton asks, his grin half-daring.
“You’re insane,” I mutter. But minutes later, I’m barefoot too, following him onto a taped-off walkway lined with thousands of loose bricks: 1x1 studs, spiky plant stalks, Technic pins.
The first step is agony. The crowd roars with laughter as people hop and curse their way across. Peyton strides through like it’s nothing, grinning wide and flexing for the cameras. I stumble after him, each step stabbing fire up my feet.
When I finally limp off the path, Peyton is waiting with his sneakers in hand, smirking. “See? Character building.”
“You’re the worst,” I groan, tugging my socks back on.
But I’m laughing too, despite the ache.
We slip out of the ballroom after another round of sliders, my feet still sore from the LEGO walk. The hallway feels quieter, softer, as the chatter of the evening program fades behind us. Peyton slings an arm casually around my shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world, guiding us back toward the elevators.
By the time we’re in our room, I collapse onto the edge of the bed with a groan. “If I step on another Batman cowl tonight, I’m filing a lawsuit.”
Peyton laughs, kicking his sneakers off into the corner. “You survived. Barely. But I’m still hungry, all we had was finger food.” He snatches the hotel phone from the nightstand and dials without even asking. “One large pepperoni. Room 428. Yeah, thanks.”
“Pizza?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Recovery food,” he says smugly. “Besides, it’s tradition. Con’s not a con unless you eat delivery in a hotel bed.”
I roll my eyes, but the thought of greasy cheese and crust makes my stomach growl anyway.
While we wait, I strip down, tugging my cargo pants and shirt off until I’m just in Peyton’s mint-green shorts. The fabric slides cool and light against my skin, a secret thrill humming through me every time I shift. Peyton catches the movement, his grin turning mischievous.
“Those look better on you than me,” he says. Then, like it’s nothing, he digs into his suitcase and tosses on the Under Armour shorts, the black ones he stole from my drawer at home. He sprawls onto my bed, arms behind his head. “Fair trade.”
When the knock comes, Peyton answers in his socks like it’s his room at home, carrying back the cardboard box like treasure. We dig in, grease-slick fingers and stringy cheese pulling between bites. He props my laptop against his knees, pulling up Twitch.
“War Thunder Stream?” he asks, already typing it in.
“Obviously.” I nod, settling in next to him.
We eat and watch some guy in Poland scream over dogfights and tank battles, the chat scrolling faster than I can read. Peyton chuckles through a mouthful of pizza. “This is basically your porn.”
I shove his shoulder. “Shut up. Takes one nerd to know another.”
We end up sprawled sideways on the bed, the War Thunder stream forgotten, the empty pizza box abandoned on the desk. Peyton shifts closer, his thigh brushing mine, and then he’s straddling my hips, weight pressing me down into the mattress.
“You really like those shorts, huh?” he teases, his fingers tugging at the hem of the mint nylon I’m wearing.
“You let me wear them,” I shoot back, my voice cracking just enough to betray me.
That grin of his, the one that always means trouble, spreads across his face. “Guess I did.”
The kiss that follows is hungry, less playful than before. His tongue slides against mine, his hand gripping the back of my neck like he can anchor us both there. My hips buck up without thinking, meeting the solid heat of him through the old Under Armour shorts. The jolt makes us both gasp.
Then it starts. A rhythm. His weight grinding down, my hips answering. Nylon against polyblend, heat building with every shift. It’s clumsy, desperate, the friction maddening.
“God, Chris,” he groans into my mouth, the sound ragged. His forehead presses to mine, sweat already slicking his temple.
I clutch at his back, at his waist, anything to pull him closer. The fabric is too thin, too smooth, every roll of his hips sending sparks shooting through me. My breath stutters, legs trembling as he drags against me just right, again and again.
“Feel that?” he pants, lips brushing my ear. “Feels so good… feels like I could,”
“Don’t,” I choke out before I even think. “Not yet.”
He freezes for half a heartbeat, then pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, wild, but there’s something softer underneath. He nods, barely, and keeps moving, slower now, deliberate, savoring instead of chasing.
The pressure builds until I’m right at the edge, my whole body taut, shaking with the effort of holding back. Peyton’s breath hitches like he’s there too, teetering. We ride that line together, gasping, grinding, trembling, until it’s unbearable.
And then, somehow, we stop.
The silence is deafening. My chest heaves against his, our foreheads pressed together, both of us wrecked but not undone.
Peyton laughs, breathless, collapsing against me. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, voice shredded. My pulse is still racing, my body screaming for more, but beneath it all is the strangest calm. Like, stopping here, together, wasn’t a failure. It was a promise.
We tangle under the covers, still in just our shorts, still buzzing with everything we didn’t finish. His arm finds its way over my chest, heavy and warm, his breath slowing against my shoulder.
I close my eyes, the heat of him pressed to my side, and drift off with the taste of him still on my lips.
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