The beach house had been his family's secret for years—a ramshackle cabin tucked into the treeline where the Beach City forest met the shore, hidden from the main road by a wall of pines and salt scrub. Lincoln had found the key in his dad's sock drawer one summer and never told a soul. Not even his sisters, who would have turned it into a clubhouse within a week. It was his. And now, for the first time, it was going to be theirs.
He'd spent the whole afternoon preparing, his heart hammering against his ribs the entire time. He swept the sand off the porch, wiped down the windows, and dug out the old quilt his mom kept in the hall closet for picnics. He folded it into a neat square and set it by the door, then unfolded it and shook it out, trying to make it look less deliberate. More casual. Like they'd just happened to end up here, on this beach, at sunset, with a quilt and a cooler of sodas and nowhere else in the world to be.
Ronnie Anne texted him at 4:47. on my way. don't be weird.
He texted back: me? weird? never.
She replied with a single eye-roll emoji, and he laughed out loud, alone in the quiet cabin, the sound swallowed by the creaking floorboards and the distant hush of waves.
The walk to the beach took them down a narrow trail that wound through the pines, the branches overhead knitting together until the sunlight came through in coins. Ronnie Anne walked ahead of him, her skateboard tucked under her arm, her dark ponytail swinging with each step. She wore cut-off shorts and a tank top, and her tan skin had that golden glow that came from a whole summer outside.
"You're being weird," she said, not looking back.
"I'm not being weird."
"You're being quiet. That's weird for you."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She was right. His brain had been a live wire all afternoon, sparking with everything he wanted to say and none of the words to say it with. He'd known Ronnie Anne his whole life—she'd been his best friend since they were kids, the one person who could make him laugh until his stomach hurt, who'd never once looked at him like he was the weird kid with too many sisters. But something had shifted between them this summer. Something that made his palms sweat and his voice go thick in his throat.
"I'm just—" he started, then stopped.
She turned around, walking backward, her brown eyes catching the last of the sunlight. "You're just what?"
"Nervous," he admitted.
Something flickered across her face—soft, quick, gone before he could name it. "Don't be," she said. Then she turned back around and kept walking.
The trail opened up onto the beach, and Lincoln stopped breathing.
The sand stretched out in both directions, still warm from the day's heat, and the ocean rolled in lazy and endless, the waves catching fire as the sun sank toward the horizon. The sky was a bruise of orange and pink and deep purple, and the wet sand at the waterline glowed like spilled amber. It was the kind of sunset that made you feel small in the best way, like the whole world was happening around you and you got to be part of it.
"Holy shit," Ronnie Anne breathed.
Lincoln spread the quilt out on the sand, weighing down the corners with his sneakers and her skateboard. They sat down side by side, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and watched the sun go down. The waves kept up their steady rhythm, and the gulls called overhead, and for a while neither of them said anything.
Then Ronnie Anne leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder, and Lincoln felt his whole body go still.
"This is nice," she said quietly. "I'm glad you brought me here."
His throat was tight. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She tilted her head up to look at him, and the sunset caught her face, turning her brown eyes to honey. "You're not so weird after all."
He laughed, a breathless sound. "You said I was weird."
"I said you were being weird. There's a difference." She smiled, and it was the kind of smile she didn't give anyone else—soft, unguarded, like she'd let down a wall she didn't even know she had. "You're actually pretty great, Lincoln."
His heart was pounding so hard he was sure she could feel it through his shirt. "You're pretty great too."
She didn't look away. Neither did he.
The space between them felt charged, humming with something neither of them had said out loud yet. Lincoln could feel the heat of her body through her tank top, could smell the salt and sunscreen on her skin, could see the way her lips parted just slightly, like she was waiting for something.
He leaned in.
She met him halfway.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like they were both testing the waters. Then her hand came up to cup the back of his neck, and the kiss deepened, and Lincoln felt the world tilt sideways. Her lips were warm and tasted faintly of the cherry soda she'd had on the walk over. Her fingers curled into his hair, and he made a sound low in his throat that he didn't recognize.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard.
"Okay," Ronnie Anne said, her voice a little shaky. "That was—"
"Yeah," he agreed. "It was."
She laughed, a breathless, disbelieving sound. "Why didn't we do that sooner?"
"I don't know." He was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. "I've been wanting to for—" He stopped, suddenly embarrassed. "A while."
Her eyes went soft. "Me too."
She kissed him again, and this time there was no hesitation. Her tongue brushed against his lower lip, and he opened for her, and the taste of her flooded his mouth. Her hands slid down his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he pulled her closer, one hand splaying across the small of her back, the other tangling in her ponytail.
The waves kept rolling in, and the sun kept sinking, and Lincoln lost track of everything except the girl in his arms.
Ronnie Anne pulled back just enough to look at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen. "Lincoln," she said, and her voice had dropped to something low and serious. "I want to—" She stopped, bit her lip.
"What?"
She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. "I want to do something. With you. Here."
His stomach flipped. "What kind of something?"
She held his gaze, and there was a boldness in her eyes that made his breath catch. "The kind of something we've both been thinking about all summer."
Lincoln's mouth went dry. "Ronnie—"
"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it," she said, and there was a challenge in her voice now, a tease. "Because I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."
He couldn't deny it. He'd been looking at her all summer, watching the way the sun caught her hair, the way her hips moved when she walked, the way her laugh made his chest feel too tight. He'd thought about it. He'd thought about it a lot.
"I have," he admitted, his voice rough. "I've thought about it."
She smiled, slow and knowing. "Good."
She kissed him again, harder this time, and her hands found the hem of his shirt. She tugged at it, and he got the message, pulling back just long enough to yank it over his head. The evening air hit his bare skin, and then her hands were on him, warm and sure, tracing the lines of his chest, his stomach, the jut of his hipbones.
"You're so skinny," she murmured against his mouth.
"You're so—" He lost the thought as her fingers brushed lower. "Ronnie."
She laughed, a low, pleased sound. "Yeah?"
"I want to—" He swallowed hard. "Can I—"
"Yes," she said, before he could finish. "Whatever it is. Yes."
He kissed her again, deeper, and his hands found the hem of her tank top. He hesitated, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her waist, and she arched into him, a small, encouraging sound escaping her throat.
He pulled the tank top up, and she raised her arms to let him, and then it was gone, tossed onto the sand beside them. She wasn't wearing a bra, and the last light of the sunset painted her skin in shades of gold and amber. Lincoln stared, his breath catching in his throat.
"You're beautiful," he said, and meant it.
Her cheeks flushed darker, but she didn't look away. "You're not so bad yourself."
He leaned in and kissed her again, and his hand came up to cup her breast, thumb brushing over the nipple. She gasped against his mouth, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and he did it again, slower, learning the shape of her, the way she responded to his touch.
"Lincoln," she breathed, and the sound of his name on her lips—like that, breathless and wanting—sent a spike of heat straight through him.
He lowered his head, pressing his mouth to her collarbone, then lower, tracing a path down her sternum. She arched into him, her hands fisting in his hair, and when his lips closed around her nipple, she made a sound that was almost a sob.
"Oh," she gasped. "Oh, that's—"
He did it again, and again, learning what made her gasp and what made her moan and what made her pull him closer, closer, closer. Her skin tasted like salt and sunscreen and something underneath that was just her, and he couldn't get enough.
Her hands found the button on his shorts, and he froze.
"Is this okay?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Yeah," he managed. "Yeah, it's—"
She undid the button, pulled down the zipper, and her hand slipped inside. Her fingers wrapped around him, warm and sure, and Lincoln's head fell back, a groan tearing out of his throat.
"Ronnie—"
"Shh," she murmured, her thumb tracing the length of him through his boxers. "I've got you."
She pulled his shorts down, then his boxers, and then there was nothing between them, just the warm evening air and the sound of the waves and her hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slow and deliberate.
"You're so hard," she said, and there was wonder in her voice. "Is this—is this all for me?"
"Yes," he gasped. "God, yes, Ronnie, it's all—"
She leaned down and pressed her lips to the tip, and Lincoln's whole body seized. Her tongue flicked out, tasting him, and then she took him into her mouth, and he couldn't breathe.
Her mouth was hot and wet and perfect, and she moved down on him slow, taking him deeper, and deeper, until her nose brushed against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. She swallowed around him, her throat working, and Lincoln made a sound that was barely human.
"Ronnie—" His voice cracked. "Ronnie, I'm—"
She looked up at him, her brown eyes dark, her lips stretched around him, and she didn't stop. She bobbed her head, taking him deep again, and again, and Lincoln felt the pressure building, coiling low in his belly like a spring being wound too tight.
"I'm gonna—" he gasped. "I can't—"
She pulled off just long enough to say, "Do it." Then she took him back into her mouth, all the way down, and Lincoln came apart.
His hips bucked, his hands fisting in her hair, and he spilled down her throat with a groan that echoed across the empty beach. She swallowed, and swallowed, and when she finally pulled off, there was a string of spit and cum connecting her lips to his cock, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking up at him with a satisfied smile.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
She laughed, a low, pleased sound. "Good?"
"Good?" He reached for her, pulling her up so he could kiss her, tasting himself on her lips. "Ronnie Anne, that was—I don't even have words."
She grinned against his mouth. "Then show me."
He didn't need to be told twice. He flipped them, easing her onto her back on the quilt, and kissed his way down her body, past her stomach, past the waistband of her cut-offs. She lifted her hips to help him, and he pulled them off, along with her underwear, and then she was bare beneath him, the last light of the sunset painting her skin gold.
He looked at her, spread out on the quilt, her chest rising and falling, her eyes dark and waiting. "You're so beautiful," he said again, because it was true, because he couldn't say anything else.
"Lincoln," she whispered, and there was something raw in her voice. "Please."
He lowered his head between her thighs, and the first taste of her made him groan. She was slick and hot, and she arched into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, and he learned her the way she'd learned him—slow, deliberate, cataloging every sound she made, every way her body moved.
When she came, it was with his mouth on her, her thighs clamping around his head, her back bowing off the quilt. She cried out his name, and the sound of it, raw and broken, sent a surge of heat through him.
He crawled up her body, positioning himself between her thighs, and the tip of his cock pressed against her entrance. She was so wet, so ready, and he looked into her eyes, asking without words.
She nodded.
He pushed inside.
The heat of her enveloped him, tight and perfect, and Lincoln had to stop, had to breathe, had to just hold still for a moment to keep from coming right then and there. She was so warm, so slick, and she felt like she'd been made for him.
"Move," she whispered. "Please, Lincoln, move."
He did.
He pulled out slow, then pushed back in, and she moaned, her nails raking down his back. He found a rhythm, steady and deep, and she met him thrust for thrust, her hips rising to take him deeper, deeper, until there was nothing left but the two of them and the sound of the waves and the feeling of her clenching around him.
"I'm close," she gasped. "Lincoln, I'm so close—"
"Me too," he managed. "Ronnie, I—"
"Come inside me," she said, and the words sent a shock through him. "Please. I want to feel you."
He couldn't have stopped if he'd tried. He buried himself deep, his hips stuttering, and came with a groan that tore out of his chest. She clenched around him, her own orgasm rippling through her, and they came apart together, tangled in each other, the sunset burning the sky to cinders around them.
They lay there for a long time, breathing hard, the quilt bunched beneath them and the sand cool against their skin. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep, bruised purple, and the first stars were starting to appear.
"That was—" Lincoln started.
"Yeah," Ronnie Anne agreed. "It was."
She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, and looked at him. Her hair had come loose from its ponytail, spilling dark and tangled around her shoulders. There was sand in it, and on her skin, and she looked wild and beautiful and completely his.
"I love you," she said.
The words hung in the air between them, soft and sudden, and Lincoln felt his heart stop.
He opened his mouth, and the words came out before he could think about them. "I love you too."
She smiled, and it was like watching the sun come up.
They stayed on the beach until the stars were fully out, wrapped in the quilt, her head on his chest, his hand tangled in her hair. The waves kept their steady rhythm, and the world felt small and quiet and entirely theirs.
Finally, she stirred. "We should go."
"Yeah," he said, though he didn't want to. "The cabin's not far."
She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. "The cabin?"
"It's my family's place. In the forest. It's—" He hesitated. "It's where I was going to take you, anyway. After."
She smiled, slow and warm. "Show me."
Lincoln stood up, holding his hand out to her. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet, the quilt falling away from her body. The stars were out in full now, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled a jar of glitter, and the air had gone cool against their bare skin.
"It's through the trees," he said, nodding toward the dark wall of pines at the edge of the beach. "Maybe a five-minute walk."
Ronnie Anne looked at the forest, then back at him. Her hair was still a wild tangle around her shoulders, and there was sand on her cheekbone. She didn't bother brushing it off. "Lead the way."
They gathered their clothes in silence, pulling them on with the clumsy urgency of people who'd rather not be wearing them. Ronnie Anne shook out her tank top and stepped into her cut-offs without bothering to find her underwear first—she shoved them into her back pocket with a grin that made Lincoln's stomach do a slow flip.
"What?" she said, catching him looking.
"Nothing." He was already dressed, his shirt on backwards. He didn't fix it. "Just—you're something else."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "You're such a dork."
"You love it."
She didn't argue. She just took his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and let him lead her into the trees.
The trail was narrow and dark, the moonlight filtering down through the branches in silver coins. The pines smelled sharp and green, and the sound of the waves faded behind them until it was just a distant hush, like the ocean was breathing in its sleep. Lincoln knew every twist of the path by heart—the root that jutted up like a snake, the low branch that always caught him in the forehead if he wasn't paying attention. He ducked under it, pulling Ronnie Anne close, and she laughed, a soft sound that seemed to belong to the forest.
"You've been here a lot," she said.
"Every summer since I was nine." He kicked a pinecone out of the path. "Found the key in my dad's sock drawer. He never even noticed it was gone."
"And you never told your sisters?"
"Are you kidding? Lori would've turned it into a spa. Leni would've lost the key. Luan would've—" He stopped, trying to think of something Luan would do. "Actually, I don't know what Luan would've done. But it would've been loud."
Ronnie Anne snorted. "Loud. Like that's a surprise."
"Exactly." He squeezed her hand. "So I kept it to myself. It was my place. My secret." He paused, the words catching in his throat. "Now it's ours."
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tightening around his. When she spoke, her voice was softer than he'd ever heard it. "I've never had a secret place before."
"Now you do."
The cabin emerged from the darkness like something out of a dream—a small, ramshackle structure with a sagging porch and a tin roof that gleamed dully in the moonlight. Vines crept up one wall, and the windows were dark, but Lincoln knew every creak and groan of the place by heart. He fished the key out of his pocket—old and tarnished, worn smooth from years of use—and unlocked the door.
It swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the trees.
Ronnie Anne stepped inside, and Lincoln watched her take it in: the single room with its sagging bed, the wood stove in the corner, the stack of dusty paperbacks on the shelf, the old lantern that had been there since before he was born. Moonlight streamed through the window, painting everything in silver and shadow.
"This is it," she said, her voice hushed. "This is your secret."
"Yeah." He closed the door behind them, the latch clicking into place. "I know it's not much—"
"Lincoln." She turned to face him, and her eyes were shining. "It's perfect."
She crossed the room in three steps and kissed him, and Lincoln felt something loosen in his chest that he hadn't even known was tight. Her hands came up to cup his face, and he pulled her close, one hand splaying across the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair. They stumbled toward the bed, breaking apart just long enough to laugh, to breathe, to look at each other like they couldn't quite believe this was real.
The bed was old, the mattress lumpy, the sheets smelling faintly of dust and cedar. Lincoln had brought fresh ones from home, folded in a plastic bag in the corner, but he hadn't gotten around to putting them on. He didn't care. He pulled Ronnie Anne down onto the mattress, and she landed on top of him with a soft oof, her hair falling around his face like a curtain.
"Hi," she said, grinning down at him.
"Hi," he said back.
She kissed him again, slower this time, and Lincoln let his hands wander. Her tank top had ridden up, and his fingers found the bare skin of her waist, warm and smooth. She shivered against him, and he did it again, just to feel it.
"I can't believe we did that," she murmured against his mouth. "On the beach. In the open."
"I can't believe you let me."
"You didn't exactly give me time to think about it." She propped herself up on her elbows, looking down at him. Her hair was a mess, her lips swollen, and she'd never looked more beautiful. "You just—swept me off my feet."
"Is that a complaint?"
"No." She traced a finger down his chest, stopping at the waistband of his shorts. "I'm just saying. You're full of surprises, Lincoln Loud."
He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. "You haven't seen anything yet."
Her eyes went dark, and she leaned down to kiss him again, harder this time. Her hips ground against his, and Lincoln groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her thighs. She was still wearing her cut-offs, and he could feel the heat of her through the denim.
"I want to ride you," she said, the words blunt and sudden, and Lincoln's brain short-circuited.
"What?"
"On the beach, you were on top." She sat up, straddling him, and her hands found the hem of her tank top. "Now it's my turn."
She pulled the tank top over her head, and Lincoln's breath caught. Her breasts were bare, her nipples already hard, and the moonlight painted her skin in shades of silver and gold. She reached down and undid the button on her cut-offs, shimmying out of them, and then she was naked on top of him, her thighs straddling his hips, her skin warm against his.
"Ronnie—"
"Shut up," she said, but she was smiling. "Just—let me do this."
She leaned down and kissed him, deep and slow, and her hand found the waistband of his shorts. She tugged them down, and his boxers with them, and then her fingers wrapped around his cock, already hard, already aching for her.
"You're ready," she murmured.
"For you? Always."
She positioned herself over him, the tip of his cock pressing against her entrance, and Lincoln held his breath. She was so wet, so slick, and he could feel the heat of her even before she sank down.
She lowered herself slowly, inch by inch, and Lincoln's head fell back against the mattress. She was tight, so tight, and the feeling of her enveloping him, inch by inch, was almost too much. She gasped as she took him fully, her hands braced on his chest, her head tilted back.
"God," she breathed. "You feel—"
"Yeah," he agreed, his voice strained. "Yeah."
She started to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that had him gripping the sheets. Her hips rose and fell, taking him deep, and the moonlight caught the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the way her hair spilled over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and she was his, and he couldn't quite believe it.
"Is this okay?" she asked, her voice breathy.
"Better than okay." He reached up, his hands finding her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. She moaned, her rhythm faltering, and he did it again. "You're perfect, Ronnie."
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on either side of his head, and kissed him, her hips never stopping. The angle changed, and he slid deeper, and she broke the kiss with a sharp gasp.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, that's—"
"Good?"
"Shut up." But she was smiling, and she did it again, rolling her hips in a way that made his vision blur.
They found a rhythm together, slow and deep, the bed creaking beneath them. Lincoln's hands roamed her body—her hips, her waist, her breasts, the soft skin of her inner thighs. She was everywhere, surrounding him, and he never wanted to be anywhere else.
"I'm close," she gasped, her nails digging into his chest. "Lincoln, I'm—"
"Come for me," he said, the words rough in his throat. "Let go, Ronnie. I've got you."
She came with a cry, her body clenching around him, and Lincoln felt his own release building, unstoppable. He buried himself deep, his hips bucking, and spilled inside her with a groan that tore out of his chest. She collapsed on top of him, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and they lay there, tangled together, the moonlight pooling silver on their skin.
"That was—" she started.
"Yeah," he agreed. "It was."
She laughed, a breathless, disbelieving sound. "We're going to be terrible at this."
"At what?"
"At pretending this is just—friends." She propped herself up, looking down at him. "Because I don't think I can pretend anymore."
Lincoln reached up, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "Me neither."
She kissed him, soft and sweet, and then she sat up, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Round two?"
Lincoln's eyebrows shot up. "You want to go again?"
"I'm not tired yet." She rolled her hips, and he groaned, already hardening inside her. "And you're not either, apparently."
"You're going to kill me."
"Probably." She grinned. "But what a way to go."
The second time was slower, more deliberate. She rode him with her hands on his chest, her head tilted back, the moonlight tracing the lines of her throat. He watched her, mesmerized, his hands on her hips, guiding her rhythm. She came again, harder this time, her body shuddering around him, and he followed her over the edge, spilling inside her with a groan that seemed to echo off the walls.
The third time, she was the one who was nearly spent. Her movements were slower, lazier, her head resting against his shoulder. He held her, his arms wrapped around her, his hands finding her breasts and kneading them gently, the way you'd hold something precious.
"I love this," she murmured, her voice drowsy. "I love you."
"I love you too," he said, and he meant it with every fiber of his being.
She rode him through the last of it, slow and sweet, and when she came, it was with a soft, shuddering breath, her body clenching around him one last time. He followed her, emptying himself inside her, and then they collapsed together, spent and tangled and utterly theirs.
The cabin was quiet, save for their breathing and the distant hush of the waves. The moonlight had shifted, painting a silver square on the floor, and the air had gone cool. Lincoln pulled the quilt up over them, tucking it around Ronnie Anne's shoulders.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
"Mmm." She snuggled closer, her head on his chest, her hand splayed across his stomach. "This is the best I've ever felt."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Me too."
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. Then she spoke, her voice soft and sleepy. "Lincoln?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For showing me this place. For—" She paused, searching for the words. "For trusting me."
His throat tightened. "I'd trust you with anything, Ronnie."
She lifted her head, her eyes shining in the moonlight. "I know." She kissed him, soft and slow. "That's why I love you."
She settled back against him, and Lincoln felt something settle in his chest, warm and permanent. He let his hands find her breasts again, cupping them gently, his thumbs brushing over her nipples in slow, idle circles. She sighed, a soft, contented sound, and pressed closer to him.
"That's nice," she murmured.
"Yeah?"
"Mmm." Her eyes were already closing. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He kept his hands on her, kneading her breasts with a slow, rhythmic pressure, the way you might squeeze a stress toy. Her breathing evened out, deepening, and he felt her body go heavy against his, surrender and sleep pulling her under.
The cabin creaked around them, settling into the night. The waves kept their distant rhythm, and the moonlight crept across the floor, silver and patient. Lincoln held her, his hands still moving, his heart full to bursting, and watched her sleep.
He didn't know what the morning would bring—what his sisters would say, what their friends would think, what the world would make of two kids who'd found something real on a sunset beach. He didn't care.
Right now, there was only this: the cabin, the moonlight, and the girl in his arms, her breath warm against his chest, her body soft and trusting in his hands.
He squeezed her breast once more, gentle and possessive, and felt her smile against his skin without waking.
Then he closed his eyes, and let the waves carry him under.