Sugar Rush

The clock on the wall ticked, a reminder of the hours slipping away. Twenty-four hours left, and Rowan knew, without a doubt, that they’d spend every minute they could with Morgan. But would it be enough? Would a handful of stolen moments be enough to sustain them when Morgan was an ocean away?

The next day passed in a blur of stolen moments and charged glances. Rowan’s schedule was packed—a back piece that took hours, a touch-up session, a walk-in who wanted a tiny star behind their ear. But between clients, between the buzz of the needle and the wipe of the rag, they found themselves reaching for their phone, texting Morgan.

> How’s the packing going? > Terrible. I’m 90% sure I’ve forgotten something vital. Like my passport. Or my common sense. > Pack light. You can buy socks in Paris. They have socks there, right? > Smartass. What about you? How’s the ink life? > Currently tattooing a koi fish on a very sweaty guy. Wish me luck. > Ew. Good luck. And thanks for that mental image.

They met for lunch, squeezing in sandwiches at a tiny deli down the street. Morgan’s hands were dusted with flour, their apron strings trailing. “I’ve been prepping dough for the morning,” they said, their eyes bright with exhaustion and excitement. “My sous chef is covering the opening shift, but I couldn’t resist one last batch of conchas.”

Rowan watched, captivated, as Morgan tucked a stray strand of hair behind their ear, their fingers long and elegant. “You’re amazing, you know that? Your passion—it’s infectious.”

Morgan flushed, ducking their head. “I’m just doing what I love. Like you.”

Their knees bumped under the table, and neither of them pulled away. The air between them hummed with unspoken words, with the weight of the hours slipping away.

They parted with reluctance, Rowan heading back to the studio, Morgan to their bakery. But the texts continued, a steady stream of jokes and updates and little check-ins.

> I just had a client ask for a tattoo of a potato. Not even a fancy potato. Just… a potato. > Please tell me you talked them out of it. > Nope. Gave them the most majestic potato tattoo in the history of spuds. I’m thinking of adding it to my portfolio. > You’re ridiculous. I love it.

Later, as the sun began to set, Rowan found themselves at the bakery, drawn by the sweet, yeasty scent and the promise of Morgan’s smile. They leaned against the counter, watching as Morgan moved through the kitchen with practiced grace, their hands shaping dough with sure, steady movements.

“Hey,” Morgan said, spotting them. They wiped their hands on their apron, their grin wide and welcoming. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t stay away,” Rowan said, their voice low. They held up a paper bag. “Brought you something.”

Morgan peeked inside, their eyes widening. “Are those…?” “Churros,” Rowan confirmed. “From that place on Fifth. I figured you might need a break from sugar.” “Never,” Morgan laughed, snagging one. They groaned as they bit into it, the cinnamon and sugar dusting their lips. “Okay, maybe just this once.”

They stood close, the heat from the ovens wrapping around them. Morgan’s apron was smudged with flour, their hair coming loose from its tie. Rowan’s fingers itched to reach out, to tuck that stray lock behind their ear, to trace the curve of their jaw.

“You have a little…” Morgan said, gesturing to their own face. “Flour, I think.”

Rowan swiped at their cheek, their skin tingling where Morgan’s gaze lingered. “Gone?”

“Not quite.” Morgan stepped in, their thumb brushing Rowan’s cheekbone. The touch was light, fleeting, but it sent a jolt through Rowan’s veins. “There. Perfect.”

“Thanks,” Rowan murmured, their voice thick.

They stood there, suspended in the moment, the bakery warm and fragrant around them. The clock on the wall ticked, each second a reminder of the looming deadline.

“I should get back,” Morgan said softly, regret coloring their tone. “The morning rush won’t wait, even for Paris.”

“Right. Of course.” Rowan cleared their throat, trying to shake off the spell. “I should let you work.”

But neither of them moved. The air crackled, hot and heavy with everything unsaid.

“Rowan,” Morgan breathed, their voice barely audible above the hum of the ovens. “I… I don’t want to go.”

The admission hung between them, raw and vulnerable. Rowan’s heart clenched, their throat tight. “I know,” they whispered. “I don’t want you to go either.”

Morgan’s hand found Rowan’s, their fingers interlacing. “Come home with me tonight. Please. I… I need to feel you. Before I leave. Before…” They trailed off, their eyes searching Rowan’s face.

Rowan’s pulse roared in their ears, their blood hot and insistent. They knew what Morgan was asking, knew what it would mean. One night. One chance to explore this thing between them, to sear it into their memories before the distance tore them apart.

“Yes,” they said, the word escaping on a breath. “God, yes.”

“Your place or mine?” Morgan asked, their voice rough with want.

“Mine’s closer,” Rowan said, already steering them toward the door. “And quieter. Unless you’re into baking-themed background music.”

Morgan’s laugh was breathless, giddy. “Your place it is.”

The walk to Rowan’s apartment was a blur, their hands clasped tight, their feet moving with single-minded purpose. The city hummed around them, the sounds of traffic and distant laughter a constant thrum beneath the pounding of their hearts.

Rowan fumbled with the keys, their hands trembling with anticipation. Inside, the apartment was small but cozy, the walls adorned with framed sketches and tattoo designs. The air smelled faintly of incense and pencil shavings, a scent that was uniquely Rowan.

“Nice place,” Morgan murmured, their eyes drifting over the art on the walls.

“Thanks,” Rowan said, tossing their keys on the counter and turning to face Morgan. The space between them crackled, electric and alive. “But I don’t really want to talk about my décor right now.”

“No?” Morgan stepped closer, their hands finding Rowan’s hips. “What do you want to talk about?”

Rowan’s answer was a kiss, deep and hungry, their lips crashing into Morgan’s with a desperation that had been building for days. Morgan met them with equal fervor, their fingers tangling in Rowan’s hair, their bodies molding together.

“Fuck, Rowan,” Morgan gasped, breaking the kiss to trail their lips down Rowan’s jaw, their throat. “I’ve wanted this since the moment I walked into your studio.”

“Same,” Rowan panted, their hands already tugging at the hem of Morgan’s shirt. “God, same.”

They stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went, leaving a trail of fabric in their wake. Morgan’s shirt, Rowan’s jeans, Morgan’s bra, Rowan’s binder—each item discarded with urgency, with the need to feel skin on skin.

In the bedroom, they tumbled onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and heated breaths. The city hummed outside the window, a constant reminder of the world beyond this room, beyond this moment. But here, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, there was only them.

Rowan took a moment to drink Morgan in—the smooth expanse of their chest, the curve of their hips, the tattoo Rowan had inked now a vibrant splash of color against their skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” they breathed, their fingers tracing the lines of the sugar skull. “So strong. So… you.”

Morgan shivered under their touch, their eyes dark with desire. “Your turn,” they murmured, reaching for the buttons of Rowan’s shirt. “I want to see you. All of you.”

Rowan’s breath hitched as Morgan’s fingers worked the buttons, their touch light but sure. The shirt fell open, revealing the tape Rowan used to bind their chest. Morgan’s gaze lingered, their expression soft.

“Is this okay?” they asked, their fingers brushing the edge of the tape. “I want you to be comfortable. To feel good.”

“It’s perfect,” Rowan assured them, their voice thick with emotion. “I’m perfect. With you.”

They made quick work of the tape, Morgan watching with rapt attention as Rowan unwound it, their chest expanding with a sigh of relief. Morgan’s eyes widened, their lips parting on a silent gasp.

“Rowan,” they breathed, their hands reaching out, hovering just above Rowan’s skin. “Can I…?”

“Yes,” Rowan said, the word escaping on a moan. “Please. Touch me.”

Morgan’s hands were reverent, tracing the lines of Rowan’s body with a tenderness that stole their breath. They explored every inch, every curve and plane, their touch igniting fires under Rowan’s skin.

“You’re magnificent,” Morgan whispered, their lips following the path their hands had taken. “Every part of you. I want to worship every inch.”

They took their time, learning each other’s bodies with a focus that bordered on devotion. Rowan mapped the constellation of freckles across Morgan’s shoulders, the dip of their spine, the sensitive skin behind their knees. Morgan traced the tattoos that adorned Rowan’s arms, the scars that told stories of their past, the lines of their ribs that rose and fell with each ragged breath.