Chapter 4
Idon’t know when I finally fell asleep.
It was long after both Tanner and Milo had crawled into the tent.
After Milo had shimmied into our shared sleeping bag and wrapped himself around me, warm and familiar against my back.
Long after I lay there stiff and still, staring at the curve of the tent ceiling, hyper-aware of Tanner in his own bag a few feet away.
I couldn’t see his eyes in the dark, but I felt them. Tracking every rise and fall of my chest as I pretended to sleep. Every tiny twitch of my fingers when Milo shifted against me.
Hours seemed to stretch between heartbeats while I lay there pinned between desire and dread, both of them breathing only feet away.
Then something changed.
The intensity faded. Tanner’s breathing deepened. Soft snores eventually filled the tent, and only then did my body finally give in to exhaustion.
Until I woke to the insistent press of Milo against my thigh.
I shift slightly, and Milo answers with a sleepy roll of his hips, a low rumble vibrating from his chest into mine. The twitch of his erection against my leg sends liquid heat coursing through my veins.
My own dick strains against the fabric of my gym shorts.
Down, boy.
We cannot do this right now.
My silent protest means nothing to Milo’s sleeping brain though.
Still half-asleep, his hand drifts from my hip and settles between my legs, fingers curling loosely around me. The contented sound he makes warms my ear, as if we’re alone in our bedroom instead of separated by nylon and three feet of air from Tanner fucking McCormack.
“Good morning,” Milo whispers.
“Stop it,” I hiss, keeping my voice low, eyes locked on Tanner’s back turned away from us, sleeping bag pulled up to his shoulder.
Milo hums softly. “Doesn’t feel like you want me to stop.”
“He’s sleeping right there.”
His lips brush my ear, the tip of his tongue tracing its edge. “Then keep quiet.”
He pulls his hand away and I miss it instantly, but before I can even process the loss, his fingers slip beneath my waistband, warm palm finding bare skin.
I catch my lower lip between my teeth, trapping the sound trying to climb out of my throat.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” I breathe, even as my body tips into his touch on instinct.
“Maybe that’s what makes it exciting,” he murmurs, amusement threaded through every word.
Something electric courses through me knowing Tanner lies only a few feet away while Milo’s body curves protectively around mine.
The tension that’s been building all night has me strung impossibly tight.
I close my eyes and give a single nod.
His touch is unhurried as he nuzzles against my neck, breath ghosting over my skin while his hand works slowly, confidently, spreading the slickness gathering at my tip down along my length.
It’s almost enough to send me into full-blown psychosis.
Every nerve in my body is lit up. This is the kind of want I’ve spent years trying to bury.
The kind that doesn’t care if it’s messy or badly timed or impossible to sustain once the sun comes up.
It doesn’t care that Tanner is only a few feet away, that this is probably a terrible idea, that morning could arrive with consequences.
It only cares that Milo’s arms are around me. That his touch knows exactly where to land. That the dark makes everything feel bolder than it should.
It wants, and right now, that’s all I am. Want, held tight against Milo’s chest, pretending this isn’t exactly the sort of moment that lingers long after it ends.
Maybe for the rest of the weekend.
Maybe longer.
Milo’s teeth graze my neck and something inside me snaps. I jerk against him, every muscle tightening at once, my body straining toward his touch as my hips buck against his fist.
Needing more, I turn my face into his throat, chasing the pressure of his mouth.
That’s when I see Tanner has rolled over.
He’s watching us.
Our eyes meet across the dark. His are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, his expression unreadable until the moment his tongue slips out to wet his lower lip.
That one small gesture undoes me completely.
I break apart silently, spilling hot across my stomach and into Milo’s waiting hand, trembling as pleasure tears through me.
I can’t look away from Tanner, and he doesn’t break his gaze either.
Something like triumph flickers in his eyes, then he rolls back over, leaving me trembling in the aftermath, knowing he didn’t accidentally witness a vulnerable moment.
He claimed it.
Milo’s breath is hot against my neck, voice a satisfied rumble. “Fuck, that was hot.”
The words pull me back into my body. Arms still trembling, pulse racing beneath sweat-slick skin, tangled in his embrace.
“Do you think he heard?” he asks.
My eyes dart to Tanner’s silhouette. He’s gone completely still. Not the loose stillness of sleep, but something charged. His spine is a hard line beneath the sleeping bag, shoulders drawn tight, and in the silence between us, I can almost feel the strain humming off him.
“Nah,” I lie. “He’s still sleeping.”
I glance down at Milo, his eyes still hazy with sleep, gaze soft and steady on me.
“Do you need me to…?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “I already came. When you did.”
I hadn’t noticed. Too wrapped up in Tanner. In the weight of his stare. In the way it cracked me open without ever touching me, and what exactly does that say about me?
About us?
My stomach twists with something that feels like guilt but tastes a lot like anticipation. Milo’s arms are still around me, warm and real and everything I chose, while Tanner’s rigid shape lingers across the tent.
Everything I denied.
Truth is, I’ve denied a lot.
Because without denial, there’s only want. And wanting something you shouldn’t have, don’t need, or can’t keep has always felt like the fastest route to trouble.
As Milo cleans us both with his T-shirt, the truth washes over me.
I crave the safety of Milo’s hands and the danger of Tanner’s gaze with equal desperation. Somewhere inside these tent walls exists a version of reality where I don’t have to choose, where wanting both doesn’t make me greedy or broken.
Even if there’s some parallel universe where Tanner wants me as much as I want him, what then?
I’ve spent years building this life with Milo. Becoming someone who doesn’t take without thinking about the fallout.
Now I’m lying here between them, split clean down the middle.
Tanner will leave again. That’s what he does.
Milo deserves better than being someone’s half-choice.
I can’t have both.
I probably can’t even have one without wrecking everything.
That’s the real kicker.
I still want to try.
My thighs are on fucking fire.
Ninety minutes of this bullshit and I’m ready to fake an injury or maybe roll myself down the hill. Whatever ends this fastest.
This isn’t even a real mountain. It’s a hostile lump of dirt some tourism board branded a “peak” because place where you’ll confront your own mortality wouldn’t fit on the brochures.
Milo, that bastard, is practically skipping.
He’s ten steps ahead, leading our death march like a deranged camp counselor. Every five minutes he stops to photograph a leaf or announce he’s becoming “one with the moss” or receiving “blessings from the trail gods.”
Meanwhile, Tanner’s simply existing. Like gravity is optional for him. No sweat. No heavy breathing. He keeps this infuriatingly steady rhythm as he climbs. His shoulders haven’t even dropped once.
Who does that? Who hikes like they’re in a fucking REI commercial?
I hate him a little for it.
I hate that I notice his calves every time he steps up over a root. I hate that the back of his shirt is damp between the shoulder blades in a way my brain insists on cataloging. I hate that while I’m one labored breath away from seeing God, he looks built for exactly this.
Some people are made for trails and wilderness and fresh air.
I, personally, was made for climate control and complaining.
For me every step is another fuck-you from my calves, but saying anything about it feels... I don’t know, like I’m taking up too much space by admitting it hurts.
Milo can have fun. Tanner can have strength.
I get to have endurance.
Which is suffering with better PR.
So focused on the fresh wave of aches rippling through my legs, I don’t notice Tanner appear beside me.
Great. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.
Milo’s still fifty feet ahead, narrating his personal nature documentary to no one, completely oblivious that we’ve fallen behind.
“Is it gonna be like this all weekend?”
Tanner’s voice has that forced-casual thing going on that is not casual at all. I turn, and now we’ve made eye contact.
Immediate mistake.
I should joke. Deflect. Pull some classic Nate maneuver where I turn sincerity into sarcasm and escape to catch up to Milo. Use him as a shield.
Instead, my deeply unreliable mouth says, “Like what?”
I know exactly what this is.
The suffocating awkwardness. The tension thick enough to choke on. The way something that used to be as natural as breathing now feels like performing heart surgery blindfolded.
The stilted conversations. The fake smiles. The constant awareness of exactly how many inches of space exist between us at any given moment.
The fact that I can still tell when he’s looking at me without even turning my head.
The fact that I hate that I still can.
The problem is Tanner probably thinks all this is about him bailing on us, disappearing for years to “find himself” or whatever. Maybe at first it was. But now I can’t even look at him without my body reacting while my brain spins off into fantasies.
I stay quiet for a beat, trying to shove that whole train of thought into a dark place deep in my mind. Let him think I’m another abandoned friend with a bruised ego.
I think it’s easier that way. Cleaner than the truth.
Tanner doesn’t push. He doesn’t need to. He simply gives me that look, brows drawn in slightly, mouth tight at the corners.
“Don’t play dumb, Nate,” he says eventually, gaze drifting back to the trail ahead.