Chapter 7
Dinner happened. That’s about the nicest thing I can say about it.
When Tanner strolled back from the bathhouse, he locked eyes with me with a look that said I know what you saw, and I know you liked it.
As for me? I developed a sudden, intense interest in literally anything else. Tree bark. Dirt. Counting the absurd number of rubber ducks lining the dash of Tanner’s Jeep.
Milo’s head kept swiveling between us as if we were a puzzle he was actively solving. Whatever pieces clicked into place made his smile stretch wider and wider until I swear his face was ninety percent teeth.
I eventually waved the white flag and retreated to the tent. By the time the other two climbed in after me, I was fully out. Exhausted from the hike, the… situation, and the stress of both.
I slept like the dead. Out so completely that Milo and Tanner’s morning routine never even registered. One minute I’m passing out, the next I’m blinking awake in an empty tent, their voices drifting through the nylon walls.
I scrub my palms over my face, kick free of my sleeping bag, and crawl toward daylight.
The thought of pulling on clothes crosses my mind for about half a second before I dismiss it. What’s the point? It’s only us out here anyway. I duck through the tent flap in nothing but my navy boxer briefs and immediately regret the decision as the morning chill hits.
It’s the kind of cold that sinks straight into your bones. I instinctively wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep what little warmth I have.
The sky’s gone bruised overhead, heavy clouds swollen with rain that hasn’t quite decided to fall yet.
The smell of breakfast pulls me toward the campfire, where Milo hovers over the grate. He spots me instantly, his whole face lighting up before he crosses over and presses a quick, warm kiss to my mouth that tastes like coffee.
By the Jeep, Tanner wrestles with the soft top, snapping it into place before the weather turns.
I study the ground. The tent. The sky. Anywhere but him. One glance at those eyes and I’ll be right back in that bathhouse, making my very ungraceful exit under pressure.
I can feel him watching me. He knows exactly why I’m avoiding his gaze. When I risk a sideways look, he’s wearing the biggest shit-eating grin, and suddenly I’m dropping my hands casually in front of myself, cursing my decision to skip pants this morning.
“Everything okay there, Nate?” he asks.
“Mhm.” It’s all I’ve got.
“You sure about that?”
“I’m cold.”
“Then why,” Milo asks, “are you out here half-dressed?”
Thunder growls somewhere beyond the tree line. We all tilt our heads up at the same time.
“Better find some clothes,” Tanner says, eyes dragging over my bare chest. “Unless you’re planning to get… soaked.”
I clench my jaw hard enough to hurt. When I glare at him, he catches his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back a laugh.
“What’s the plan with this weather?” I manage.
Milo checks his phone. “Passing showers. We could head into town, grab ingredients for something decent. Last night and all.”
I glance at Tanner. He shrugs. “Jeep’s ready whenever.”
“Hard pass,” I mutter. “That death trap’s seen better decades.”
Tanner pats the hood. “Lower your voice. She’s sensitive.”
“We’ll take the car,” Milo says. “I’ll drive.”
A cold splat lands on my bare shoulder. Then another. And another. The sky opens and suddenly we’re all moving. Milo throws a tarp over the cooking gear, Tanner snatches clothes off the line, and I make a break for the tent.
The canvas does nothing to stop it. Rain pounds overhead, loud and relentless, turning the whole thing into a drum. By the time I duck inside, I’m soaked through, water running down my arms, boxer briefs clinging in ways I’d rather not think about, especially not with Tanner anywhere nearby.
I drag my duffel across the tent floor and dig through wadded T-shirts and shorts.
Perfect timing, this rain. A clean slate. Exactly what I needed.
We’ll drive into town, grab supplies, maybe laugh about something stupid. It’s three guys hanging out. Nothing complicated.
Because it can’t be complicated.
I shimmy out of the soaked boxers, kick them toward yesterday’s clothes, and grab a dry pair. I step into them quickly, moving fast enough to pretend none of this and none of that ever happened.
It’s a normal day. A regular, normal day.
The tent zipper rasps open.
“Well,” comes Tanner’s voice from the entrance. “Quite the show.”
I don’t turn right away. I focus on pulling my shorts up, yanking them into place harder than necessary. “It’s called getting dressed.”
“Shame,” he replies, the tent flap falling shut behind him.
Rain pounds overhead, but I still catch every movement. The shift of his weight, the quiet brush of fabric as he lingers.
The space feels smaller with him in it.
When I do turn, he’s there. His gaze drops to my bare chest, lingers, then drags back up to my face with unhurried intent.
My throat tightens when I swallow. “Milo’s waiting in the car.”
Tanner nods, that smile deepening at the corners.
I fumble for my shirt, nearly turning it inside out in my rush, desperate to put anything between his gaze and my skin.
Once I’m dressed, we stand there, rain hammering overhead, filling the silence neither of us seems willing to break.
“I spent years being the one who leaves,” he says, inching further into the tent. “Not anymore. If you think you can outrun whatever this is… you can’t.”
“I’m not running,” I insist, but the laugh that slips out gives me away.
“You are.” His tone is steady. Certain. “And you can try, Nate. Just know I’m right behind you.”
Then he’s gone, ducking through the tent flap and sprinting toward the car.
I stay rooted where I am, heart hammering, suddenly unsure if I want to get away from him… or give in and let him catch me.
The only place to buy supplies within twenty miles of our campsite is Mitchell’s General Store. It’s a weathered wooden structure that looks like it was built by someone who’d seen exactly one horror movie and thought, “Yes, that’s the architectural vibe I’m going for.”
Inside, fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, casting a sickly glow across yellowed metal shelves that sag at the center. The floorboards creak beneath your boots, each step striking a different note in a warped melody that sounds suspiciously like a warning.
Outside, a hand-painted mural commemorates 65 YEARS SERVING THE MOUNTAIN.” The faded acrylic artwork depicts the Blue Ridge’s misty peaks at dawn and, inexplicably, a slightly cross-eyed Bigfoot giving a thumbs-up.
Turns out the Mitchells themselves defy the murder-cabin aesthetic, greeting customers with homemade fudge samples and genuine questions about your day that somehow never feel intrusive, even when they’re clearly trying to figure out if you’re “from around here.”
The couple have given us space to browse, though Mrs. Mitchell did swing by to welcome “Turner and his friends” back to the mountain.
Now I’m hiding in the canned goods aisle, pretending to compare nutrition labels while actually tracking movement.
Every time I glance up, I catch Tanner’s eyes slipping away over the shelves. We’re both locked in this ridiculous routine of fake shopping. Pick something up, inspect it like it matters, set it back down with care.
Meanwhile, Milo’s actually reading labels, scanning ingredients, quietly building a meal out of whatever these shelves can offer.
I grab a can of refried beans and turn it over in my hands, not taking in a single word.
“You always this focused when you shop?” Tanner calls from the other side of the aisle.
I don’t look up. “Yeah. Big fan of sodium content.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Some things never change.” Then he’s suddenly beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “Still terrible at hiding what you want.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” I say.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“Hey guys!” Milo pops up at the end of the aisle, basket hooked over his arm. “Quick poll.”
I exhale, relief flooding through me. “What’s up?”
Milo dangles a small bottle between his fingers. The label catches the light.
Lubricant.
Heat floods my face. “No. God. Why would we need that?”
Milo’s eyes flick between us, something calculating settling in. “Okay… Thought I’d ask.”
Tanner coughs into his fist, turning away, shoulders shaking as he works to suppress a full out cackle.
Milo tosses the bottle back onto the shelf with practiced nonchalance. “Anyway, found everything for tacos.”
“Perfect,” I mutter, accidentally locking eyes with Tanner and his knowing smirk as I blindly toss my can into Milo’s basket.
Milo glances down. “Beans?”
“They go in tacos,” I say, clinging to the mundane logic of ingredients and recipes because these are things with clear purposes and defined roles.
“I wouldn’t have picked refried, but sure,” he says, shrugging. Then, under his breath, “Are you good?”
“Yes. I’m fine. Why?”
“You grabbed the same can three times.”
“I was comparing brands.”
“Mm. Deep research.” He bumps his shoulder into mine. “Proud of you for keeping it together, though.”
I shoot him a look. “I am together.”
“Absolutely,” he says. “Thriving. Glowing. Not at all vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear. C’mon, domestic king, let’s go pay for your emotional support beans.”
He pivots toward checkout, hooking the basket more securely on his arm. I follow, grateful for the movement, for the simple promise of a beginning and an end.
Behind us, Tanner maintains exactly seventeen inches of distance. It’s close enough that the air between us feels charged, far enough that accidental contact remains impossible.
I count his footsteps without wanting to. I track the subtle shifts when he leans to examine something, the way space expands and contracts around him like a living thing.
This should be easy. We came here for food. We got food. We leave. That’s it. But nothing about this is that simple anymore.
Milo glances back once, then leans in, voice low against my ear. “You know I meant it, right?”
I don’t ask what part. I already know.
I fix my gaze on the ancient cash register ahead, its yellowed keys promising escape.
Normal. Act normal.
Milo nudges me again. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs, like he’s both amused and completely serious.
If I hear it enough, maybe it’ll start to feel true.