Riley told a story about a blind date gone wrong in Manhattan, and by the time he was acting out the moment he’d gotten “double catfished,” the group was howling so hard Ethan’s stomach hurt. Cole was laughing, too—a quiet, rough sound that was more real than any laugh Ethan had ever heard from him.
The fire burned lower and the temperature dropped.
As the chill in the air deepened, Harper finally declared it time to call it a night. Riley, ever the good friend, rose to his feet and offered his arm to the swaying Jack, who was struggling to keep his balance. Ethan watched them retreat into the darkness, a knot of reluctance tightening in his chest. He sensed the magic of the evening slipping away, the laughter and warmth fading with each step they took. Ethan knew the night was ending, but he didn’t want it to.
Cole and Ethan sat together on a fallen log. Cole’s arm found its way around Ethan’s shoulders. They sat in silence for a while, just watching the sparks twist up into the dark.
“Do you think it gets easier?” Cole asked.
“What?”
“This. Letting yourself be happy.”
Ethan thought about it. “No. But you get better at it.” He tipped his head until it rested against Cole’s.
Cole’s hand squeezed Ethan’s thigh, once, hard. “I’m scared,” Cole admitted, and the words seemed to cost him.
“I know,” Ethan said. “But so am I. That’s how you know it’s worth it.”
They walked back to Cole’s cabin side by side, shoulders brushing. When they got inside, the fire was still glowing from earlier, and they shed their clothes. Cole crawled into bed first, opening the covers, and Ethan joined, sliding in until their bodies matched along every line.
They cuddled up, naked, breathing in sync, until sleep hit them both like the wave that had started this whole thing.
They woke to light, a familiar, honey-gold kind. Ethan cracked open his eyes and admired Cole sleeping. Cole slept on his back, lips parted, his morning stubble appearing soft in the morning light. For once, his features had lost all their hardness.
Ethan edged closer and pressed his face into the hollow above Cole’s collarbone, and stayed there, breathing in the scent of last night’s fire smoke and a note of pine that had become uniquely Cole. He kissed the spot, soft and slow, and Cole’s arms came up and wrapped around him.
“You’re awake,” Ethan whispered, voice still sticky with sleep.
“Barely.” Cole said as his hand slid under the blanket and found its way to Ethan’s ass, squeezing gently. “We could stay like this all day,” he offered.
“We could. But then you’d get hungry and complain until I went and made you breakfast.”
Cole grinned, one side of his mouth quirking up. “That’s true.”
Ethan ran his hands along Cole’s ribs, feeling the slight twitch under his touch. “You always this handsy in the morning?”
“I always wanted to be.” Cole’s words had no armor left.
They lay there, tangled, until the sun crept far enough across the window to warm the tip of Ethan’s nose. He let go, rolledonto his back and stretched, toes curling against the sheets. “Do you want coffee?” he asked.
Cole groaned, “God, yes. I’ll make it.”
Ethan laughed. “I’ll shower, then.”
They moved in parallel, as if they’d lived in the space together for years instead of just a single, world-shifting night. Ethan padded barefoot to the bathroom.
He showered quickly then toweled off, pulled on jeans and a clean black t-shirt, and left his hair damp. He returned to the main room to find Cole at the kitchen island, already dressed in a pearl snap shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled and hands wrapped around a mug the color of midnight.
Ethan poured himself a cup, took a slow, scalding sip, and joined Cole on the porch. The air was crisp, vibrating with the calls of meadowlarks and the distant nicker of horses being turned out for the morning. The whole of the valley was spread before them, drenched in that early light that turned every blade of grass and every bead of dew into a jewel. It was a view so beautiful, that for a second, Ethan couldn’t believe that this is what his life could look like every morning.
They sat in matching wooden chairs, steaming mugs sitting on a handmade wooden table between them. Cole’s hand found Ethan’s thigh and settled there, thumb moving in slow, hypnotic circles through the denim. There was nothing performative about it now; this was just how it was going to be.
They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. Every now and then Cole would squeeze Ethan’s thigh, or Ethan would lean in to steal a quick, lazy kiss, and that was enough.
They watched the staff lead horses to the paddocks, watched a tractor rumble up the driveway, watched a blue pickup creep across the property. Someone had the radio on somewhere—a twangy ballad about losing and finding things—and for a minute, Ethan let himself drift.
Eventually, Cole glanced at his watch. “We should get ready. Harper said she wanted a ‘proper sendoff.’”
