Sunrise in Ipanema

The hotel lobby was quiet—just the hum of the night porter’s desk fan and the soft slap of Nico’s flip-flops on marble. It was 4:12 a.m., and Rio was finally sleeping. Nico wasn’t.

The party had fizzled. Beautiful people, cool drinks, half-hearted flirting. He’d smiled through it, danced a little, but the spark hadn’t lit. It rarely did when he tried too hard.

Back in his room, he kicked off his sandals and collapsed onto the bed, scrolling. The hotel app’s Wi-Fi was unstable, but his hookup app was buzzing with late-night hunger. A few taps, a few swipes—and then:

“That ass is dangerous.”

The message came from someone named Thiago. His profile pic was a candid mirror selfie—wet hair, dark eyes, low towel. Nico tapped into his own profile. Right, that shot. From behind, showing his back and his ass, from the beach two days ago. 

“You’re close,” Nico replied.

“Same hotel? Room 504. You?”

Nico grinned.

“What about the Rooftop pool. Come watch the sunrise with me?”

There was a pause. Then the typing bubble.

“Be there in five.”

He didn’t dress again, just threw on the hotel robe and padded back out into the hallway. The rooftop was still, lit by the blue glow of underwater lights in the pool and the first silver hints of dawn brushing the sky beyond the dark spine of the Dois Irmãos mountains.

Nico sat on a lounger, legs pulled up, the hem of the robe falling loosely around his thighs. He let the early breeze cool the last heat of the night off his skin.

He heard the soft creak of the rooftop door.

Thiago was taller than expected. Shirtless, gym shorts, flip-flops. Curls messy from sleep or a quick rinse. He didn’t say anything at first—just came over and sat beside Nico on the edge of the lounger, a careful, quiet closeness.

“I wasn’t sure if you were serious,” Thiago said eventually.

“I never send sunrise invites as a joke.”

Thiago laughed, low and rough. “Good to know.”

They both looked east. The edge of the sky was warming, the inky blackness softening into watercolor blue. Down below, Ipanema was beginning to exhale—the clink of early workers, distant buses, the hush before the city reopened itself.

Nico turned to look at him. “So, what made you message me?”

Thiago smirked, not answering right away. “I have a weakness for a peachy ass.”

Nico’s smile widened. “I see"

Thiago met his gaze. “Don’t act surprised. You posted that photo.”

A quiet beat passed between them, something between a challenge and an invitation.

Nico chuckled softly. “Are you this direct with everyone?”

Thiago leaned in just a little, eyes gleaming. “Only when it works.”

The silence between them settled again—thicker this time, stretched tight with possibilities.

Nico leaned back, one arm behind his head. The robe shifted further, exposing the smooth slope of his hip.

“You swim?” he asked.

Thiago didn’t look away. “Do you?”

“I will if you do.”

Thiago stood and peeled off his shirt slowly—like he knew Nico was watching. His body was lean, golden, shoulders strong but not cocky. He dropped his shorts next, revealing black trunks, fitted and minimal. Then he stepped into the pool, his movements fluid, unbothered.

Nico followed, sliding out of the robe with a stretch, bare except for his jock. He didn’t look at Thiago as he entered the water—but he felt the gaze.

They floated, arms brushing occasionally, the sky bleeding color around them. Orange. Then pink. Then a soft, impossible gold.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Thiago said after a while.

“What did you expect?”

“A quick hookup. A bed, maybe. A door closed behind me.”

Nico smiled, drifting closer. “And instead?”

Thiago met his eyes. “This.”

Nico reached for the edge of the pool and leaned back, head resting on his arms. “Don’t get me wrong. I still might want to kiss you. Hard.”

Thiago drifted closer. Their bodies touched lightly in the water. Nothing overt. Nothing rushed. Just contact, and the suggestion of everything that might follow.

“Then do it,” Thiago whispered.

Nico did.

The kiss was slow. Sun-warmed. Curious. It didn’t need to prove anything. Thiago’s lips were soft and sure, the kind that didn’t panic. The kind that promised to be better the longer they lingered.

When they finally pulled apart, the sun had crested over the horizon, spilling gold across the pool, across their faces, across the rooftops of Rio below.

They stood in the shallows, water trailing down their skin, hands still lightly touching.

Thiago looked at him, eyes searching.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

Nico grinned. “Mine or yours?”

Thiago leaned in again, a second kiss—shorter, lazier.

“Both.”