Chapter 2 #2
“I don’t care if you’re dying,” I’d heard her say. “It’s your fault you drank so much. It’s my engagement weekend and you’re not spending it in bed.”
Now, watching Owen wince as Zara’s laugh pierces the chatter, I find myself annoyed by Ava’s insistence. He needs more time to recover. More sleep. More care.
“The waterfall is supposed to be amazing,” Naya says. “According to the trail guide, the water has special energetic properties. I brought bottles to collect some for my crystal cleansing.”
“I heard it’s a moderate hike,” Bryce adds, unfolding a map. “About three miles each way, with some elevation gain toward the end.”
Owen’s face pales further at this information, and he closes his eyes. His knuckles whiten around his coffee cup.
“Owen, I was thinking we could buddy up,” Zara says. “I’d love your perspective on that design challenge I mentioned yesterday.”
He manages a tight smile that looks more like a grimace. “Sure,” he mumbles, though his tone suggests he’d rather dive headfirst off the waterfall than make conversation for six miles.
Something hot and possessive flares in my chest. The thought of Owen struggling through the hike while Zara chatters at him—while he’s suffering—grates against a protective instinct I didn’t know I possessed.
Without analyzing my motivations, I push my chair back and stand.
Conversations continue around the table as I make my way to the breakfast buffet.
The lodge’s commitment to sustainability extends to their food service—all local, organic ingredients with detailed sourcing information displayed on small cards.
I grab a clean plate and begin loading it with the greasiest items available.
Fried eggs. Buttered sourdough toast. Hash browns with golden crusts.
I select each item with surgical precision, bringing the same focus I apply when preparing for a complex procedure.
Between selections, I glance back at Owen.
He’s now resting his forehead in his palm.
His other hand still clutches his coffee, which must be getting cold.
No one else seems to notice—or care—how much he’s suffering.
I return to the table with my loaded plate and set it down in front of him with enough force to make him look up. His bloodshot eyes widen in surprise as they meet mine for the first time this morning.
“Eat this,” I say, my voice pitched low enough that only he can hear, but with unmistakable authority.
He stares at the plate, then back at me. “I don’t think I can—”
I cut him off with a look—the same one I use on residents who question my instructions in the OR. “You’ll feel better. Eat.”
A flush spreads across his cheeks, bringing the first hint of color to his face since he sat down. Something uncertain and vulnerable flickers in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might refuse and push the plate away with some snippy comment about not needing my help.
Instead, he picks up a fork and takes a small, tentative nibble of hash brown. Then another. The conversation continues around us, but my attention remains fixed on Owen, watching as he works his way through the meal.
With each bite, something in me settles.
It’s the same satisfaction I feel when a surgical plan executes perfectly, when bleeding stops under my hands, when a patient’s vital signs strengthen after a procedure.
But this is different too—more personal, more primitive.
I’m taking care of him. And he’s letting me.
“We should leave in about thirty minutes,” Ava announces to the table. “The hike takes about two hours each way, so we’ll be back for a late lunch before the pottery class.”
Owen’s hand falters as he lifts his coffee cup, but his movements are less pained now.
The food is doing its job. He’s eaten most of the eggs and hash browns, made a decent dent in the toast. When he sets his cup down, his eyes meet mine again, and this time there’s something like gratitude in them—mixed with confusion and that same warm flush that keeps rising to his cheeks whenever our gazes lock. Does he remember last night?
Bryce’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “What do you think, Slade?”
“About?”
“Whether we should take the lower trail or the upper one to the waterfall. Upper is steeper but shorter. Lower is longer but gives better views of the valley.”
“Lower,” I say without hesitation, glancing at Owen. “No need to push too hard.”
Bryce nods, folding the map. “Lower it is.”
As breakfast winds down, the group begins gathering their things. Ava distributes eco-friendly water bottles from her tote bag. Bryce consults with a lodge staff member about trail conditions. Zara applies sunscreen to her bare arms while chatting with Naya.
Owen has finished most of the food and sits straighter now, his complexion less ghostly. When he stands, his movements are more fluid. The worst of the hangover seems to have receded.
“Better?” I ask as he pushes his chair in.
His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment before darting away. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”
That blush again, spreading from his cheeks down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. I find myself wondering how far down it goes. How much of his body would flush pink under different circumstances—under my hands, my mouth.
The thought ambushes me. I’ve never had these kinds of thoughts about a man before, yet they feel natural, inevitable even.
“Everyone got sunscreen? Water? Snacks?” Ava calls out. “The trail has some exposed sections, so hats are recommended.”
Owen tugs a baseball cap from his back pocket and pulls it on. The gesture is casual, but I find myself tracking the movement of his hands, the way the cap tames his disheveled hair but can’t contain it completely. Golden strands escape around the edges, catching the light.
“We should…” he gestures toward the door where the others are gathering, his eyes still avoiding mine.
“Yeah,” I agree, though part of me wishes we could skip the hike, return to our room, and finish what started last night—this time with both of us conscious and consenting.
But that conversation needs to happen first. And for that, we need privacy.
As we join the others by the lodge entrance, I position myself behind Owen, close enough to catch his scent—soap and coffee and sweet cherries beneath it all.
The proximity is deliberate, a silent claim in this space.
Zara sidles up next to him, already starting to talk.
I watch the tension return to Owen’s shoulders.
Six miles of hiking stretch ahead of us.
Six miles of group dynamics and socializing.
But somewhere in those woods, there will be an opportunity—a moment when the group spreads out, when conversation pairs shift.
And when that moment comes, I’ll be ready.
I want to understand this pull between us. To know if last night was a drunken mistake or the beginning of something neither of us expected to find. Most of all, I want to see if sober Owen responds to my commands the way I think he will—with that delicious mix of resistance and surrender.
As we file out of the lodge and toward the trailhead, I keep my eyes on the back of his neck, on the vulnerable spot where his hairline tapers beneath his cap.
Mine, a voice in me whispers.
A claim I have no right to make, based on nothing but a drunken encounter and a breakfast intervention.
And yet.