THIRTY-TWO
The sun was fully up when Kieran started breaking down camp.
Rory sat slumped in the camp chair, wrapped in a blanket even in the climbing heat, looking pale and hollowed out. He’d tried to stand twice—once to help with the tent, once to carry the cooler—and both times Kieran had physically steered him back to the chair.
“I can help,” Rory protested weakly.
“You can sit,” Kieran replied. “That’s how you help.”
Rory didn’t have the energy to argue.
So Kieran worked alone, methodically dismantling everything they’d set up the day before.
The tent came down in pieces, poles first, then stakes, then the fabric itself, all of it folded and stuffed back into its bag with more force than finesse.
He didn’t care if it was neat. He cared about getting Rory home.
Hank and Mabel had positioned themselves next to Rory’s chair and hadn’t moved since.
Hank sat like a sentinel, his body pressed against Rory’s leg.
Mabel lay at his feet, her head resting on her paws.
Every few minutes, one of them would look up at him with those big, concerned eyes, and Rory would absently scratch behind their ears.
“Good dogs,” he murmured. “I’m okay.”
Neither of them looked convinced.
Neither was Kieran. He loaded the sleeping bags into the truck bed, then the cooler, then the camping chairs.
The fire pit was already cold, the ashes scattered and buried.
He double-checked the area for trash, for anything they might’ve left behind, then triple-checked because his brain needed the distraction.
Rory hadn’t thrown up again in the last hour, which Kieran was taking as a good sign. But he was still shaky, still pale, enough that he might keel over if he stood up too fast.
“You doing okay?” Kieran asked, crouching in front of him.
Rory nodded. “Better.”
“That’s a relative term.”
“I’m upright. That’s progress.”
Kieran smiled. “Fair.”
He pressed the back of his hand to Rory’s forehead. No fever, at least. Just exhaustion and dehydration and a digestive system that had staged a full revolt.
“Can you drink some water?” Kieran asked.
Rory took the bottle and sipped carefully, like his stomach might change its mind at any second.
“Good,” Kieran said. “Only little sips. We’ll get you home and you can rest.”
“I can rest here.”
“You’ll rest better in your bed. With a bathroom nearby.”
Rory huffed a weak laugh. “That does sound appealing.”
Kieran stood and did one last sweep of the campsite. Everything was packed. The truck was loaded. There was nothing left to do except leave.
He helped Rory to his feet, one arm around his waist, balancing him as they walked slowly to the Tacoma.
“I’ll drive,” Rory said as Kieran opened the passenger door.
“Absolutely not.”
“Kieran…”
“Get in the truck, Rory.”
Rory must’ve felt truly terrible because he didn’t argue. He climbed into the passenger seat with Kieran’s help, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes.
Kieran buckled him in, then closed the door quietly.
The dogs jumped into the back seat without prompting, settling in like they understood their job was to keep watch.
Kieran climbed into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirrors, the seat, getting a feel for the truck. It was bigger than his Subaru, sat higher, handled differently. But it was solid. Reliable.
He started the engine and pulled out slowly, navigating the dirt road with care. The last thing they needed was to bottom out on a rock and strand themselves in the desert.
Rory didn’t open his eyes, but his hand drifted over to rest on Kieran’s thigh.
Kieran glanced over, then back at the road, covering Rory’s hand with his own.
They drove in silence for the first twenty minutes, leaving Joshua Tree behind, the strange twisted trees and stacked boulders giving way to open desert and eventually the highway.
Kieran kept stealing glances at Rory—checking his color, his breathing, the way he squinted occasionally like he was fighting off another wave of nausea.
“You need me to pull over?” Kieran asked.
“No. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Rory’s thumb brushed across Kieran’s leg. “Just tired.”
“Then sleep.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Kieran’s throat tightened. “I’m fine. You need rest.”
Rory was quiet, then said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For taking care of me. For not making it awkward.”
Kieran squeezed his hand. “It’s what you do.”
“Still.”
Kieran didn’t know what to say to that, so he just held Rory’s hand and drove.
The landscape shifted as they put miles between themselves and the park. The stark desert softened into rolling hills, then the wind farms appeared again, those massive white turbines turning slowly against the sky.
Rory had fallen asleep somewhere around Cabazon, his breathing deep and even, his hand still resting on Kieran’s thigh.
Kieran drove carefully, avoiding sudden stops and taking turns slow. He kept the music low so that it wouldn’t jar Rory awake.
In the back seat, Mabel had curled up, but her eyes stayed open, tracking Rory like she was on duty.
Kieran glanced over at Rory again, face relaxed in sleep, dark circles under his eyes, still pale but breathing steady.
The freeway gave way to surface streets. Familiar intersections. The first smell of salt through the cracked window. Kieran took the turn onto their street, and for once, arriving wasn’t like a mistake.
He pulled into Rory’s driveway and cut the engine.
Rory stirred, blinking awake. “We’re here?”
“We’re here.”
“I slept the whole way.”
“You needed it.”
Rory rubbed his face, still looking exhausted. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to you.”
“Rory. Stop apologizing.”
“Okay.” He paused. “Sorry.”
Kieran laughed despite himself. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
“I can walk.”
“I know you can. I’m not carrying you, Captain Independence.” Kieran hopped out and rounded the car. “I’m getting the door and pretending none of this happened.”
Rory smiled, tired but genuine. “Stubborn asshole.”
“You have no idea.”
Kieran came around to the passenger side and helped Rory out, one arm around his waist again. Rory leaned into him more than he probably wanted to admit, and Kieran took the weight without comment.
They made it to the front door. Kieran already had the keys in his hand.
Inside, the house was cool and dim. Kieran guided Rory straight to the bedroom.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the bed.
Rory sat.
Kieran knelt and pulled off Rory’s shoes, then his socks. “You need to shower?”
“Probably. But I don’t think I have the energy.”
“Tomorrow then. Get in bed.”
Rory stripped down to his boxers and climbed under the covers, and Kieran pulled the blanket up over him.
“Water,” Kieran said, and went to the kitchen. He filled a glass, put a piece of bread in the toaster, and brought both back to the bedroom.
Rory took a few sips of water when Kieran handed it to him. The toast sat untouched. Kieran set the water on the nightstand. “Get some sleep.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m staying.”
Rory’s eyes opened, meeting Kieran’s. “Okay.”
Kieran sat down on the edge of the bed.
Mabel had already claimed her spot on the floor near Rory’s side, curled up but alert.
Rory reached out, and Kieran took his hand.
“Thank you,” Rory said again, quieter this time.
“Sleep.”
Rory’s eyes drifted closed, his breathing evening out immediately.
Kieran’s fingers intertwined with Rory’s, watching him sleep.
Outside, the afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of light across the floor. And Kieran realized, sitting there in the quiet, that he didn’t want to leave.