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It starts raining around twelve, long strings obscuring his view and making the ocean's surface ripple. Ianto has started counting things: Seagulls (twenty-eight), screws (sixty-two he can see), times his mind has drifted to his and Jack's night together (six, twice of those prompted by the way Jack's hand flexes around the steering wheel or the ripple of muscles under his sweatshirt when he rolls back his shoulders, trying to work out a kink in his back). He can't help it. Just this once, they agreed, and Ianto curses himself for it, because as good as it was, now that Ianto's gotten a taste of what it feels like to receive Jack's full, undiluted attention, he doesn't think he can ever stop chasing that high.
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