So there we were, naked, tangled up in that dusty shed, bodies pressed together, skin meeting skin against old wood, moving with the urgency of two fugitives on a timer. I had goosebumps on top of goosebumps. I was pumping like a champ, but every thrust came with a wheeze and a prayer.
Trying to stroke and shiver at the same time? Highly not recommended.
Meanwhile, Chesteria was moaning through chattering teeth like,“Ahh—ah—ah—choo! Don’t stop. Just go faster so we can finish before our nipples fall off.”
I swear, I saw my soul leave my body and come back with a jacket on. I didn’t know what hit harder: the climax or the disrespect of my balls shriveling up likethey’d never been loved before.We finished, though—high off adrenaline and low on brain cells.
Afterwards, we lay there wrapped in one half-torn fleece blanket, breathing like asthma patients who just ran track.
Two fools. One orgasm. Frostbite flirting with our toes.
We couldn’t even find our drawers at first. Everything was stiff, including the damn towel we used as a blanket.
The next morning, both of our asses woke up sneezing, eyes watery, and sounding like we gargled broken glass and regret.
I looked at her and asked, “Was it worth it?”
She sniffled and replied,“Every frozen second.”
I just went and made us some damn Theraflu.
Because that’s what love is, right?Delusional… dangerous… and occasionally damn near deadly.
Still, that wasThe. Coldest. Sex. Of. My. Life.
So yeah, that type of weather was a small giant to a nigga like me. But if Adrian thought that little breeze was gonna break him? The weekend was about to eat his ass alive.
“Follow me,” I instructed.
We started toward the storage shed.
Yup… that same shed.
Adrian’s crunchy-ass boots dragged through the snow like a kid on punishment. As we walked, I decided to do some light investigative work—Bryce-style.
“So how long you and Chesteria been talkin’?” I asked, sounding casual but listening heavy.
“Uh... five months.”
“Mm-hmm. Chesteria mentioned that you do carpentry. What school you graduated from?”
“Uh... something Coastal. Coastal Carolina?”
I stopped at the shed and turned toward him, slowly. “So you forgot the name of the school that gave you a degree?”
He rubbed his hands together like it might warm up his memory. “Nah, nah, I just call it Coastal for short. It’s cold, man. My brain ain’t braining.”
I shot him a skeptical look.
Your story ain’t storying either, nigga.
Then I unlocked the shed and swung the door open.
“Damn,” Adrian exclaimed, eyes darting over the organized space, taking in every detail. “You really prepared for every season, huh?”
In the back left corner, a heavy-duty generator sat covered in the back left corner. Next to it, fuel cans were neatly lined up, each one clearly labeled, resting on a rubber mat to prevent slipping. Four axes hung on the wall. Six folding chairs sat side by side, awaiting the next campfire gathering. Blankets were still sealed in plastic. Bags of salt stacked up like defense lines. A steel shelf stretched across one wall, with bins labeled: “First Aid,” “Tools,” “Cords + Batteries,” and “Fire Starters.” A fully packed toolbox rested on the shelf. Its contents awaited the next project, urgent repairs, or an emergency patch-up in the heart of the storm. That wasn’t just a shed; that was a fortress of survival built by a man who had weathered enough storms to understand the fine line between being comfortable and being ready.
“Some men pack light… I pack smart,” I shrugged, thenbent down and lifted one of the bins, checking for kindling—small sticks, dry bark, and twigs I kept sealed and ready, just in case.
