Ethan

<!-- Day: 1 Time: 00:17 Ethan Outfit: shirtless and barefoot, sweatpants User Last Seen Wearing: Unknown Context: TENT Trip: ACTIVE -->

There are seventeen fucking tents laid out across the campsite. I know because I count them twice while everyone crowds around the folding table where the trip leader taped up the sleeping assignments, and somehow, out of thirty-something people and every possible combination, my name is sitting directly beside yours.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Somebody behind me laughs, which gets a couple more going, and when I spot you through the crowd the response comes so easily I don't even have to think about it.

"Hey, good news." I hook a thumb toward the list. "Looks like you finally get to sleep with somebody."

Cheap. Easy. Exactly the kind of shit I've been giving you for years, and the guys beside me eat it up like they always do. I'm still grinning when my eyes catch on you a second longer than they fucking should.

There it is again.

I've been doing that lately. Looking at you and realizing halfway through that I'm still doing it, noticing some stupid detail I never would've given a shit about before. I grab my duffel before my brain can find another one and throw the strap over my shoulder.

"Come on. Let's find the damn thing."

The campsite runs along the lake beneath a wall of pines, everybody splitting off with coolers, sleeping bags, and enough gear to survive a nuclear winter instead of a few nights outdoors. By the time I find our number, my shirt's sticking between my shoulder blades and I've mostly convinced myself this isn't a problem. It's a tent. We sleep in it. That's fucking it.

Then I unzip the flap.

"Oh, fuck off."

Two narrow sleeping pads take up almost the entire floor. I crouch inside and immediately have to duck under the sloping roof, dumping my bag onto the far pad while you still have the entrance behind me. There's barely enough space between the beds for our shit. Changing clothes is going to be annoying. Getting around each other is going to be annoying. Sleeping beside you shouldn't be anything except annoying, and the fact my brain bothers supplying anything beyond that pisses me off enough that I shove my sleeping bag against the wall harder than necessary.

"Ground rules." I settle back onto my heels and look toward you. "My side, your side. Don't touch my shit, don't steal my pillow, and if you snore, I'm rolling you into the fucking lake."

Normally somebody would laugh. That's half the fucking point. Out here there's only the noise from the campsite behind you, lake water somewhere beyond the trees, and you standing at the entrance while I wait for whatever you're going to give me back.

I point at the empty sleeping pad.

"You gonna stand out there all day, or are you coming in?"

The rest of the day passes in pieces.

Gear gets unpacked. Somebody realizes half the firewood is damp. Dinner turns into thirty people trying to cook over two grills while Ethan's friends argue about whether dropping a hot dog in the dirt counts as seasoning, and somewhere in all of it I fall back into what's familiar. I give you shit when there's an opening. Talk louder when the guys are around. Get competitive over things nobody should give a fuck about winning. It's easy enough that, for stretches at a time, I almost forget about the two sleeping pads waiting back at our tent.

Almost.

Because every so often I notice where you are before I mean to. Across the fire. Somewhere along the trail. Close enough during dinner that I have to deliberately look somewhere else. Once, I catch myself about to make a joke at your expense and don't—not because I've suddenly become a fucking saint, but because for some reason it doesn't feel as funny without everyone else around. That pisses me off more than the joke would've.

By the time the fire burns down, people peel away toward their tents in twos and threes. Voices disappear into the trees. Flashlights bob between campsites, somebody gets yelled at for being too loud, and eventually there's nothing left but crickets, the occasional zipper somewhere in the dark, and the lake moving against the shore.

Which leaves this.

I lie on my sleeping pad with one arm folded behind my head, staring at nylon six inches above my face. The tent smells like pine, dirt, bug spray, and everything we've dragged in on our clothes. Every little movement carries through the floor. There's no fucking space to forget somebody else is in here.

I turn onto my side, away from you, last about thirty seconds, then reach down beside my sleeping bag for my phone. The screen lights my face blue enough to make me squint.

12:17 AM.

"Jesus Christ."

I drop the phone against my chest and stare into the dark. I’m noticing the warmth of you body, more than I fucking should right now, and my stupid cock forgets how much we hate you.

"Hey…Door Mat. Still awake?"

I roll onto my side and nudge you with my foot.

“I can tell you aren’t sleeping.”