Chapter Twenty-Two
Maurice
They finished their coffee and stepped off the train into the cool Utah morning.
The air hit Maurice first—thin, crisp, carrying that faint bite of altitude he always forgot about until he felt it in his lungs.
It smelled like sagebrush warming in the early sun, like dry earth and pine carried down from the Wasatch peaks.
There was a wildness to it he couldn’t quite name, something open and untamed that didn’t exist back home.
Finn inhaled, eyes closing for a second as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “God,” he murmured, “that smells amazing.”
Maurice watched him breathe it in, the way his shoulders relaxed, the way the morning light caught in his hair.
Beyond the station, the mountains rose sharp and blue against the sky, their tops dusted with snow that glowed almost white.
Even the light was different here—brighter, clearer, bouncing off the salt flats in the distance and giving everything a soft shimmer.
Maurice tucked his hands into his pockets, feeling strangely grounded and unsteady at the same time. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”
The breeze carried another hint of sage, a little sharper this time, mixed with the faint mineral smell of the salt crust that clung to the edges of the valley. It was the kind of air that made you want to walk for miles just to see what was over the next rise.
Finn opened his eyes and smiled at him. “I could stay out here all day.”
A tight rush moved through Maurice at the thought. “We’ve got four hours,” he said. “Let’s make the most of it.”
So with the mountains watching over them and the wild Utah morning wrapped around them; they stepped off the platform together.
“Breakfast first,” Maurice said. “You need proper food.”
Finn bumped his shoulder lightly. “You just want to feed me.”
“Maybe,” Maurice said, and Finn laughed.
They found a small diner a few blocks from the station—enormous windows, old booths, the kind of place that served pancakes the size of plates.
Finn ordered French toast, Maurice got bacon and eggs with hash browns.
They shared bites without thinking about it, and every time Finn leaned in, his warmth shot through Maurice like a spark.
Finn talked more about growing up at their summer home his parents had and about the little trails.
He also mentioned the one summer he spent learning to ride horses at a camp.
Maurice listened, chin propped on his hand, feeling something warm settle between them.
It was easy. Natural. Like they’d been doing this for years instead of days.
With hours to spare, Maurice suggested they take a brief ride outside the city. Finn agreed instantly, eyes lighting up in a way that made Maurice want to keep offering him things just to see that look again.
A quick search on Maurice’s phone and a quick cab ride later, they found a small ranch on the outskirts, nothing fancy, just a few horses, a friendly owner, and a trail that wound through open fields with the mountains in the distance.
Finn looked almost shy as he approached the horse he’d been given, brushing its neck gently. The horse leaned into the touch, and Finn’s face softened in a way that hit Maurice right in the chest.
“You’re good with him,” Maurice said, stepping closer.
Finn shrugged, but he looked pleased. “I forgot how much I missed this.”
Maurice watched him for a moment—how careful he was, how gentle. “You look like you belong out here,” he said.
Finn glanced over, smiling. “So do you.”
A weight settled low in Maurice’s gut, heavy enough to steal his breath.
Out here, with the mountains stretching wide and Finn standing close enough that their shoulders brushed, it was easy to imagine this wasn’t temporary.
Easy to imagine Finn riding beside him back home, laughing on the trails, leaning against him by the lake.
He didn’t say any of that. Not yet.
Instead, he reached out and let his fingers graze Finn’s wrist—light, testing. Finn didn’t pull away. He turned his hand, letting Maurice’s fingers slide into his.
And just like that, the entire morning became brighter.
The ranch owner pointed them toward a simple loop trail and left them to it. The morning sun was climbing higher, warming the tops of the grass and throwing long shadows behind the horses as they started down the path.
They rode in comfortable silence for a minute, the only sounds the soft clop of hooves and the distant hum of the city behind them. The mountains loomed near, their rough surfaces almost within reach, and the air carried the dry scent of sage, dust, and warm sunshine.
Finn glanced over. “So… what was it like growing up with two brothers?”
Maurice frowned at all the bad memories. “Loud. Messy. My brothers and I were always outside fighting. My mom used to say she only saw us at dinner and when we needed bandages.”
Finn grinned. “I always wanted a sister or brother.”
“I always wondered what it would be like to be an only child,” Maurice said.
“It was lonely.”
Maurice nodded. “Where I live is on the outskirts of Chatsworth, and I have trails, brooks, and lakes. Great for camping too.”
Finn’s eyes softened. “I wish I could see it.”
“You will.”
Finn looked down at his reins, smiling as if he were trying to hide it. “You say that as if it’s already decided.”
“It is,” Maurice said.
Finn’s breath caught, and Maurice felt the moment settle between them—quiet, certain, like the trail itself had paused to listen.
They continued riding, the horses falling into an easy rhythm. At one point, Finn’s horse drifted closer again, brushing against Maurice’s. Finn didn’t move away. Instead, he let his knee rest lightly against Maurice’s, a small touch turning bigger than it should’ve.
Maurice reached over, fingers brushing Finn’s forearm. “Hot yet?”
Finn shook his head. “No. Just… comfortable.”
Maurice let his hand linger a second longer before pulling back. “Good.”
They reached a small rise overlooking a stretch of open field. The mountains framed the horizon, blue and sharp and impossibly beautiful. Finn stopped his horse and just stared.
“Wow,” he whispered.
Maurice watched him instead of the view. “Yeah,” he said. “Wow.”
Finn turned, catching him looking. “You’re not even pretending to look at the mountains.”
“No,” Maurice said. “I’m not.”
Finn’s cheeks warmed, and he ducked his head, but he didn’t look away for long. When he lifted his gaze again, there was something new in it—something open, something trusting.
A familiar tug tightened in Maurice’s chest again, quiet and steady.
They rode on, talking about everything and nothing—the best campfire meals, the time Finn fell out of a canoe and blamed the canoe.
Maurice told him about the horse he’d ridden on the Marine base in Germany, a stubborn mare who only listened to him when she wanted to.
Finn laughed so hard he nearly dropped the reins.
And through it all, they kept drifting closer—legs bumping, hands grazing, the kind of small touches that felt like promises.
By the time they looped back toward the ranch, Maurice knew one thing for certain. He didn’t want this morning to end.
And from the way Finn kept glancing at him—soft, hopeful, a little stunned—he didn’t think Finn wanted it to end either.
At one point, their horses slowed, walking close enough that their knees brushed. Finn didn’t move away. Maurice didn’t either.
“You know,” Maurice said, voice low, “after San Francisco… if you want… you could come visit. My home. The ranch. The lake. All of it.”
Finn’s breath caught. “You’re serious?”
Maurice nodded. “I don’t invite people lightly.”
Finn looked down at his hands on the reins, then back at Maurice with a soft, almost disbelieving smile. “I’d like that. A lot.”
Maurice reached over again, this time letting his fingers linger on Finn’s wrist. Finn turned his hand, lacing their fingers together for a moment as the horses walked on.