Chapter 26 - Ethan
The walk to the lodge was different this time.
The mountains had softened into shadow, sun still burning at the ridge but all else turning a shade bluer, as if the world had drawn a long sigh and let the day go slack.
Ethan could feel the residual energy of what had just happened in Cole’s cabin, the wild newness of it, but more than that, he felt the weight of Cole’s hand in his—solid, callused, and unwilling to let go.
Every now and then, their fingers would flex at the same moment, a silent pulse of you’re real, this is real.
The main lodge loomed ahead, its windows gold with lamplight. The distant clang of a dinner bell mixed with the heavy, resinous smell of nightfall and wet grass.
Ethan wanted to drag his feet, but Cole’s stride was all momentum, almost as if he feared what might happen if he slowed.
As they neared the lodge, two of the night wranglers swept past, both nodding to Cole in the way ranch hands do—respectful, a little wary, but not unkind.
Neither batted an eye at their joined hands.
Inside, the place was already buzzing. The old timber walls made every laugh and clatter ricochet which gave the big space an intimacy that felt less like a public hall and more like someone’s great room on a holiday.
Harper, Riley, and Jack were already seated at their spot, the round table tucked under a rack of old wagon wheels, the centerpiece a battered lantern that threw shadows up onto the ceiling.
Ethan and Cole were spotted instantly. Riley whistled, stood, and raised a glass. “There they are! About time you two joined us. We almost started eating without you.”
There were two open seats left beside Harper, so Ethan slid in and she gave him a one-armed hug, squeezing his shoulder.
“Looking good, Hayes.” Harper leaned closer and, for a second, it looked like she wanted to say something deeper, but Riley cut her off, waving at the waiter for more drinks. Cole sat in the open seat beside Ethan.
Jack, who had clearly pre-gamed the evening, lifted a bottle in toast. “To not dying in a landslide,” he said, voice hoarse. “And to the new couple.” He shot a look at Cole, eyebrow raised. “It’s official, right?”
Cole didn’t hesitate. “It’s official.”
The clink of glasses echoed, and for a moment Ethan forgot the outside world.
Dinner was a blur of sound and heat. They served bison steak, fried green beans, and potatoes in a lake of brown butter. Every plate was heavy and no one left so much as a smudge.
At some point, Cole peeled away and excused himself for a “work thing.” He returned five minutes later with a cloud over his face, something tight around his mouth. He slouched into the chair and, under the table, his hand found Ethan’s knee and squeezed.
Ethan leaned in. “What’s wrong?”
Cole’s voice was low. “I asked where my dad was at. I wanted to confront him later after dinner, to go ahead and get it over with and see what happens, but apparently he flew to Europe two days ago for some business summit. He won’t be back for a week.”
The news should have read as relief—Ethan expected Cole to smile, to sit up, to loosen. But the tension didn’t leave; it only seemed to harden into something more fatalistic.
“That gives us a week,” Ethan tried. “Plenty of time to figure out…anything.”
Cole nodded, but there was a shadow at the edge of his gaze. “Yeah. But when he comes back—” He let the rest hang.
Riley held court over dessert—strawberry shortcake that tasted like real summer—spinning stories from their week in the wild. He skipped none of the embarrassing details, like the time he’d nearly pissed his sleeping bag during a thunderstorm.
The only thing that marred the warmth of the scene was the painting on the wall above the head table—a formal portrait of Hershel Walker rendered in oil—the old man had the charisma of a monarch and the eyes of a tyrant. Ethan saw Cole glance up at it, then quickly look away.
With dessert finished it was time to move to the campfire for one final night of fun around the flames.
Riley grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and the whole group spilled out into the cold, clear night.
They walked the footpaths to the edge of the clearing, where a fire pit was already ablaze, the logs stacked with architectural precision.
Cole brought his guitar. Jack brought cigars, and for a while, they passed both whiskey and cigars around, the smoke, the buzz and the music braiding into the night air.
The fire was the only light for miles. It painted everyone in gold and seemed to make the drinks go down easier.
The conversation ebbed and flowed, sometimes fast and sharp, sometimes wandering into comfortable silences.
Every now and then, Cole would rest his palm on Ethan’s thigh, as if checking to see if he was still there.
At one point, Jack tried to make a final play for Harper—he put his arm around her and started into a speech about “the beauty of strong women and what the city boys back home didn’t understand.
” Harper let him finish, then slugged him in the ribs and snorted, “Strong women also know their worth.” Jack took the hit with grace, grinned, and offered her the last third of his cigar as a peace offering.
Riley told a story about a blind date gone wrong in Manhattan, and by the time he was acting out the moment he’d gotten “double catfished,” the group was howling so hard Ethan’s stomach hurt.
Cole was laughing, too—a quiet, rough sound that was more real than any laugh Ethan had ever heard from him.
The fire burned lower and the temperature dropped.
As the chill in the air deepened, Harper finally declared it time to call it a night.
Riley, ever the good friend, rose to his feet and offered his arm to the swaying Jack, who was struggling to keep his balance.
Ethan watched them retreat into the darkness, a knot of reluctance tightening in his chest. He sensed the magic of the evening slipping away, the laughter and warmth fading with each step they took.
Ethan knew the night was ending, but he didn’t want it to.
Cole and Ethan sat together on a fallen log. Cole’s arm found its way around Ethan’s shoulders. They sat in silence for a while, just watching the sparks twist up into the dark.
“Do you think it gets easier?” Cole asked.
“What?”
“This. Letting yourself be happy.”
Ethan thought about it. “No. But you get better at it.” He tipped his head until it rested against Cole’s.
Cole’s hand squeezed Ethan’s thigh, once, hard. “I’m scared,” Cole admitted, and the words seemed to cost him.
“I know,” Ethan said. “But so am I. That’s how you know it’s worth it.”
They walked back to Cole’s cabin side by side, shoulders brushing. When they got inside, the fire was still glowing from earlier, and they shed their clothes. Cole crawled into bed first, opening the covers, and Ethan joined, sliding in until their bodies matched along every line.
They cuddled up, naked, breathing in sync, until sleep hit them both like the wave that had started this whole thing.
They woke to light, a familiar, honey-gold kind. Ethan cracked open his eyes and admired Cole sleeping. Cole slept on his back, lips parted, his morning stubble appearing soft in the morning light. For once, his features had lost all their hardness.
Ethan edged closer and pressed his face into the hollow above Cole’s collarbone, and stayed there, breathing in the scent of last night’s fire smoke and a note of pine that had become uniquely Cole. He kissed the spot, soft and slow, and Cole’s arms came up and wrapped around him.
“You’re awake,” Ethan whispered, voice still sticky with sleep.
“Barely.” Cole said as his hand slid under the blanket and found its way to Ethan’s ass, squeezing gently. “We could stay like this all day,” he offered.
“We could. But then you’d get hungry and complain until I went and made you breakfast.”
Cole grinned, one side of his mouth quirking up. “That’s true.”
Ethan ran his hands along Cole’s ribs, feeling the slight twitch under his touch. “You always this handsy in the morning?”
“I always wanted to be.” Cole’s words had no armor left.
They lay there, tangled, until the sun crept far enough across the window to warm the tip of Ethan’s nose. He let go, rolled onto his back and stretched, toes curling against the sheets. “Do you want coffee?” he asked.
Cole groaned, “God, yes. I’ll make it.”
Ethan laughed. “I’ll shower, then.”
They moved in parallel, as if they’d lived in the space together for years instead of just a single, world-shifting night. Ethan padded barefoot to the bathroom.
He showered quickly then toweled off, pulled on jeans and a clean black t-shirt, and left his hair damp. He returned to the main room to find Cole at the kitchen island, already dressed in a pearl snap shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled and hands wrapped around a mug the color of midnight.
Ethan poured himself a cup, took a slow, scalding sip, and joined Cole on the porch.
The air was crisp, vibrating with the calls of meadowlarks and the distant nicker of horses being turned out for the morning.
The whole of the valley was spread before them, drenched in that early light that turned every blade of grass and every bead of dew into a jewel.
It was a view so beautiful, that for a second, Ethan couldn’t believe that this is what his life could look like every morning.
They sat in matching wooden chairs, steaming mugs sitting on a handmade wooden table between them. Cole’s hand found Ethan’s thigh and settled there, thumb moving in slow, hypnotic circles through the denim. There was nothing performative about it now; this was just how it was going to be.
They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. Every now and then Cole would squeeze Ethan’s thigh, or Ethan would lean in to steal a quick, lazy kiss, and that was enough.