Page 46 of Asystole

“Honestly, more dudes should do it. I’m telling you, there are like a thousand studies that show the health benefits of human touch; it’s good for our mental health, slows our resting heart rate, and it’s been proven that hugging lowers blood pressure. It stops the total cortisol dump most of us get all day. And the studies show the benefits happen even without the contact being sexual. Human touch is so healing, and most men don’t even know it because they can’t get over themselves enough to try it out because it isn’t ‘manly’ or whatever-the-fuck.”

Science.

Touch is science for him.

Medicine.

Platonic.

I mean, of course it is.

Chase has a cunty girlfriend that he’s been with for like a hundred years. He’s best friends with a gay guy, and that’s how he became comfortable with the closeness. Add in some medical research to confirm the benefits of cuddling, and suddenly, it all makes sense.

So, I flip the switch in my brain.

Nothing is confusing.

Chase Matthews is a straight man who enjoys intimate—albeit non-sexual—contact with guys he trusts and is secure enough to act on it.

Steeling my resolve, I quickly change out of my flight suit and into gym shorts and a tank top with gaping armholes, because if I’m going to be under a blanket with the heater currently eating pizza on my couch, I need breathable fabric and less skin covered.

By the time I make my way toward the living room, Chase has already produced a blanket with Santa hats, ornaments, and the most fucked-up looking reindeer I’ve ever seen.

“You came prepared.”

Chase grins.

“Hanny gave this to me like ten years ago. It was meant as a gag gift, but it sort of started a tradition instead.”

“Christmas cuddles,” I confirm, and Chase nods with a mouthful of pizza.

Chapter 18

Chase

Half of Logan’s torso is visible through the armholes in his tank top. I can see snippets of a tattoo on his side, but not enough to tell what it is.

“What’s your tattoo of?” I ask, expecting him to tell me, not pull his shirt up, revealing a hard body underneath as he stands in front of me.

Logan is much leaner than I am. I’m not sure why I assumed that translated to scrawny, but I was wrong. I’m also not sure why I’m mesmerized by the way his ink dances as he moves. It’s not like I’ve never seen people with tattoos before.

“It’s probably my most cliché art, but it’s a compass. I’ve lacked direction for most of my life, and when I was younger, I thought maybe permanently inking one into my skin would help me find my way.”

“The art is incredible. It looks like an actual 3D compass is embedded into your ribs,” I note out loud. “What else do you have?”

His tattoos are a delight to my eyes. This open, intimate tour of them has me eager to know the story behind them all because it isn’t until this moment that I realize I don’t actually know that much about Logan, but I want to.

“Well, let’s see,” he says, holding his right arm up. “This is the actual ridgeline of Ricochet.” He points to the mountains on the inside of his right biceps that I’ve noticed before. Putting his arm down, he points to the lightning storm inked into his deltoid first and then to the choppy sea on the top of his right forearm before flipping it over to reveal a blazing fire underneath. “These are because of my immense love, hatred, and respect for Mother Nature. Nothing is more powerful, unpredictable, and humbling than the forces of nature we can’t control,” he says, his voice laced with awe and wonder.

I sit in total silence, afraid to breathe because I don’t want him to stop, but he drops his shirt, making me think the tour is over. Except then he reaches over his head, pulls the tank top off, and turns around, baring his back to me.

Holy shit.

I set my plate beside me and stand behind Logan. Without thinking, my fingers reach out to trace the incredible lines of the helicopter’s rotor blades as they cross his spine.

Logan shudders beneath my fingers, and I offer a whispered apology as my fingers ghost over his skin.

Far too soon, he slips his shirt back on and turns to face me, his eyes not meeting mine, but focusing on his left arm. It takes him a second to find his voice, but when he does, he says, “This is from my time flying with the Forest Service. It was my first job, and I thought I was cool as fuck flying the helitack crews into remote areas to fight forest fires.” He chuckles.