Owen pushes himself up again, his hands planted on either side of my head. I can sense his determination to get off me warring with his intoxication. His knee shifts higher between my legs, pressing against my growing erection.
I need to take control of this situation before it becomes more complicated.
My hands move to his hips, intending to guide him off me. But the contact—my palms against the jutting hipbones, fingers wrapping around to his lower back—only intensifies the sensations. His skin is hot, damp with sweat from his struggles. The waistband of his underwear cuts across my thumbs. I can feel the subtle ridges of muscle along his sides.
“Let me,” I say.
But as I begin to lift him, his movements continue, creating even stronger friction against my fully hard cock. My grip tightens, fingers digging into his flesh.
Owen freezes.
His sudden stillness tells me he’s felt it—my erection pressing against his thigh. The silence between us stretches, filled only by our breathing.
For several heartbeats, neither of us moves or speaks. My mind, always analytical, struggles to make sense of what’s happening. I’ve never been attracted to men. Yet I can’t deny the evidence of my body’s response.
But more surprising than my physical reaction is how little it disturbs me. There’s no panic, no identity crisis—just a calm acknowledgment of desire. It’s as if a door I never knew existed has opened, revealing a room that’s always been there.
I wonder if it’s him specifically, or if this has been latent in me all along. Either way, the strength of my reaction is undeniable.
Through the thin fabric of our underwear, I feel something else—the unmistakable hardening of Owen against my hip. His response to my response. A feedback loop of arousal. His breathing has become shallower, faster. Mine remains measured but deeper.
“You’re really hot, you know that?” Owen whispers.
Before I can formulate a reply, he shifts again—this time with purpose, leaning down and pressing his lips against mine.
The kiss is sloppy, tentative. He tastes of whiskey but also something sweet, like cherries. His stubble scrapes against mychin, a new sensation that sends another current of arousal through me.
Owen pushes his tongue between my lips, exploring. I remain still, not responding, but not pulling away either. He’s far too drunk for this to go further. But I allow him to kiss me, to explore. I allow myself to experience it.
And it’s electric. Each movement of his mouth against mine sends powerful jolts through my body, lighting up nerve endings. I catalog each sensation: the heat of his tongue, the faint scratch of stubble, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. My hands remain on his hips, neither pulling him closer nor pushing him away.
Just as I’m considering how to gently end this, Owen pulls back.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers.
Then his head drops onto my chest, his breathing slowing and deepening. The rapid transition catches me off guard for a moment before I recognize what’s happened. He’s passed out. The alcohol and the late hour have finally claimed him.
I lie still, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine. One arm curls instinctively around his back, hand splayed against his skin.
I’ve never been prone to existential crisis. My identity is more anchored in what I do. Surgeon. Healer. The person others rely on. Sexual attraction has always been secondary, a biological function rather than a defining characteristic. Perhaps that’s why this revelation doesn’t shatter me. It simply adds new data to my understanding of myself.
Owen shifts in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent. His body relaxes further into me, becoming heavier as consciousness releases him. I adjust my position to accommodate him, making sure his airway remains clear—the doctor in me is never at rest.
His breathing synchronizes with mine, his heartbeat a steady percussion against my ribs. There’s something comforting about it, this unplanned intimacy. Usually, I keep people at a careful distance. But with Owen’s weight anchoring me to the mattress, I find myself drawn to the messiness of human connection. To the unpredictability of desire. To the simple pleasure of another person’s warmth.
My fingers trace idle patterns on his back, studying the topography of his spine. Outside, the wind rustles through the trees surrounding the lodge. Inside, in this room, time seems suspended.
My last thought is that I should move Owen to his own bed. But my body refuses to act on it. Instead, my arm tightens around him, and I surrender to sleep.
It comes easily, despite everything. Or perhaps because of it.
***
Owen hunches over his coffee cup as if it’s a lifeline in a storm. His golden hair sticks up in chaotic tufts—evidence of fitful sleep and a hasty morning. When he glances up at the sound of laughter from across the table, I catch the full impact of his misery: bloodshot blue eyes narrowed against the dining room’s natural light, skin pale except for the dark shadowsbeneath his eyes. He looks like hell. And something primal stirs in me at the sight.
I bring my own coffee to my lips, using the mug to hide my expression as I continue studying him. He hasn’t looked at me since we sat down. Not surprising.
I’d woken at dawn, as I always do, with the weight of him pressed against my side. Sometime during the night, he’d rolled off me but stayed close, his body heat seeping into my skin. For several minutes, I’d watched the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelids as he dreamed, the curve of his parted lips.
