Chapter 6 #2
He finished, but didn’t move away. The smell of pine and sweat, the warmth radiating from Ethan’s body—it all made Cole dizzy.
“Thank you,” Ethan said, eyes locked on Cole’s, voice a low scrape.
Cole nodded, mouth too dry for words. He pulled his hand away, almost violently, and stalked to the other side of the fire.
For the next hour, the group just existed.
They shared food, tried not to look at the sky for signs of weather, drank bourbon from the communal flask.
Jack dozed, waking only when Harper shifted beside him.
Riley took off his boots and flexed his toes in the dirt.
Harper braided her hair with practiced hands.
As dusk thickened, the fire grew, and the five of them huddled closer, sharing a heat that felt more honest than any words could be.
Cole felt the ache in his chest intensify, a hard pulse of want he didn’t have a name for.
He forced his face blank, but inside, every part of him vibrated with the memory of Ethan’s hands and the promise of what they could do.
The night settled like a dare, the valley black and bottomless, the fire throwing wild shadows across the ground.
Cole knew it was only a matter of time before something else slipped, and this time, he wasn’t sure he could stop it from falling.
Jack broke the silence as he glanced at Cole, “What about you, Walker? You ever fuck up bad?”
Cole thought about lying, but it didn’t seem worth it.
“Twelve years old. My brother and I were running cattle in the high summer, first time Dad let us do a drive alone. Rope got tangled in the brush—caught me full across the forearm, yanked me clean off the horse.” He traced the inside of his left arm, the skin paler and ridged.
“Almost lost the hand. Dad didn’t say a word.
Just poured whiskey on it and wrapped it tight. I cried for an hour, then never again.”
There was a silence after. The kind that wasn’t about the story, but about the things underneath it—being twelve, being scared, being made to feel small and learning to never show it again.
Ethan spoke next, though nobody prompted him.
“Two years ago,” he said, voice flat but not empty.
“I found out my wife was sleeping with someone else. Not because she told me, but because I walked in and saw it.” He didn’t look up.
“She said it was my fault. That I made her feel lonely even when I was there.”
He flexed his hands, the bandages bright against his knuckles. “I stayed for six months after that. Like it was salvageable. You get used to pain. You think you can ignore it, or outlast it. But it just... waits for you. Always finds a way back in.”
The silence felt heavy but not uncomfortable. Harper leaned forward, her eyes soft in the firelight. "That kind of betrayal leaves scars deeper than rope burns," she said quietly.
Riley nodded, reaching across to briefly touch Ethan's shoulder. "You deserved better, man." Even Jack looked up, clearing his throat.
"I’m glad you finally walked away. There are a million fish in the sea. You deserve better Hayes." he offered, voice rough with unexpected sincerity.
Cole's eyes never left Ethan's face, his expression a mix of respect and something deeper, more personal. The fire crackled between them, illuminating five people no longer quite strangers.
Riley broke the tension, voice soft and genuine. “You did good today, both of you. Not everyone reacts in a crisis like that.”
Cole tried to make himself smaller, but Ethan only smiled, rueful, as if the pain had gotten lighter. “Wasn’t thinking,” Ethan said. “Just moved.”
Cole found himself grinning.
The group drifted, the conversation looping into other things—food, old TV, whether or not civilization would last another generation—but the intimacy lingered.
At some point, Jack stretched and groaned. “I’m sleeping till noon,” he announced, and wandered to his tent, Harper and Riley following soon after. It was dark now, real dark, and the wind had gone sharp.
Cole lingered at the fire, stoking it down to a low orange bed. Ethan stayed too, fingers idling along the rim of his cup.
They were alone. The silence got bigger.
After a while, Ethan said, “I lied earlier. About the pain not hurting that bad.” He flexed his hand, wincing as the skin pulled under the bandage. “Don’t know how I fucked up and caused so much damage to my hand.”
Cole shook his head. “You didn’t fuck up. Most people would’ve frozen or let go. You didn’t let go.”
Ethan looked up, and his eyes—caught in the dark—were honest and direct in a way that made Cole want to flinch. “You’re good at this,” Ethan said. “The ranch, the land, the people. Even when you don’t say much.”
Cole snorted. “Never saw the point in talking for the sake of it.”
“Sometimes it helps.” Ethan said, he hesitated for a moment then continued, “You can always tell me to shut up, if it’s too much.” Ethan leaned in, “You ever wish you could just start over?”
Cole let the weight of Ethan's question linger in the air, the low crackle of the fire punctuating the silence between them. He took a breath, his voice low and steady as he replied, "Every damn day."
They stared at the fire. Ethan flexed his bandaged hand, testing the tightness of Cole's handiwork, then winced as pain shot through it. Cole noticed immediately.
"Too tight?" he asked, already moving closer.
"No, just—" Ethan started, but Cole was already crouched beside him.
"Let me check it," Cole said, his voice rougher than he intended. He took Ethan's hand, cradling it carefully, feeling the heat radiating through the bandage.
The silence stretched between them. Their knees touched, bare skin hot even through denim. The only sound was their breathing and the low, hissing burn of the fire.
Cole couldn't help himself—his gaze drifted to Ethan's face, the firelight dancing in his eyes, illuminating a depth that drew Cole in. Then his attention fell to Ethan’s hands, and despite the gravity of the moment, his mind wandered to fantasies he couldn't suppress. He imagined those hands wrapped around his thick cock. The thought ignited a primal hunger within Cole, a yearning to feel those fingers squeeze and stroke him until he lost all the control he’d spent a life building.
The image was so vivid it made Cole lightheaded.
He adjusted the bandage with practiced gentleness. “That should be better,” he said, voice raw.
Ethan left his hand in Cole’s for a beat longer, then withdrew, slow and careful.
“Thanks,” Ethan whispered.
Cole couldn’t meet his eyes, struggling with the tempest of emotions swirling within him.
He felt an overwhelming urge to run back to his tent, yet an equally potent desire to put Ethan on his knees and fuck his throat like a pussy until all the shame melted away.
He was ensnared in a conflict that left him teetering on the edge, but an all-consuming sense of guilt, shame and a lifetime of repressed thoughts and feelings made sure he didn’t act on any of the fiery yearnings igniting his very core.
“I should—” Cole said, gesturing at the dying fire.
“Yeah,” Ethan said, but made no move to leave.
Cole stood and smothered the flames, angry at how little it helped. He heard the zipper of Ethan’s tent, then the soft hush of him settling into the sleeping bag.
Cole waited until the world was truly black, then sat on the edge of his own tent and looked at the stars. His cock was hard, aching inside his jeans, and he hated himself for it. He pressed his palm against it, holding still, not moving, as if he could choke the feeling off by sheer force of will.
He saw Ethan’s hands, strong, but soft, working his shaft. He saw himself thrusting into Ethan’s open and hungry throat. He wanted it so bad he thought he’d suffocate. Every part of him screamed with need, and with the terror of being known.
He’d always thought he was strong enough to suppress it. That if he never acted, it could be controlled. But Ethan had blown a hole in that logic. Now Cole was at the edge, dangling, knowing he could never walk it back.
He crawled into his tent, alone, with every muscle still buzzing, and tried his best to fall asleep.
He couldn’t. He didn’t want to.
All he could do was wait, and want, and fear what would happen if he finally let his true self show.