16. Wade
Chapter sixteen
Wade
T he park service paperwork fanned across my kitchen table in orderly rows, each sheet aligned with military precision. Even the pencils I'd laid out formed a perfect column, points freshly sharpened, waiting for routine data entry. But my hand kept drifting to Holden's latest Polaroid, tucked between trail maintenance reports.
He'd captured me knee-deep in late autumn grasses, teaching Maya's school group about watershed conservation. The kids were out of frame, but their awe colored every pixel. I appeared patient, engaged, and competent through Holden's lens—everything I'd never seen in myself until he started documenting my daily work.
Wade -
You need to see these numbers. Holden's Polaroid series is exploding. The Sunset Ranger series alone (yes, that's what followers are calling your trail maintenance photos) has close to 100,000 views. Photogenesis magazine reached out about featuring his work.
I know you hate surprises, but there are plans in the works to celebrate Holden and his contributions to Blue Harbor. Of course, we'd all want you to be part of it. I'll keep you in the loop.
The real news, though? There's talk of a gallery show in Portland.
Thought you should hear it from me first. Call if you need to process.
-P
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, not knowing how to respond. Of course, Holden was getting noticed. How could he not? He saw beauty where others saw banality, found stories in silence, and turned ordinary moments into art. The question had never been if he'd be discovered, but when.
And now "when" had arrived, bringing with it the weight of possibilities I'd been trying to ignore. Portland. Galleries. A world of artistic connections waited to recognize what I'd seen that first morning on the beach.
The pencil in my other hand snapped, splintering across the pristine paperwork.
"Shit." I brushed graphite dust from the forms, but my hands weren't steady.
The cabin's walls pressed closer, heavy with three years of carefully constructed solitude. I needed air. Movement. Something to ground me in the physical world where problems had clear solutions.
I was halfway to the door when it swung open. Holden stood there, silhouetted against the sunset, cheeks flushed from the cold. He wore his camera around his neck, as usual.
"Hey. Got your message about the trail reports, but then Sarah said—"
I crossed the space between us in three strides and kissed him. Not our usual gentle exploration, but something desperate and hungry. I needed to taste him and have him before the rest of the world stole him away. He made a surprised sound against my mouth before melting into it, his camera bag thumping to the floor.
"Wade?" He pulled back just enough to see my face. "What's—"
"I need—" The words stuck, but my hands spoke for me, sliding under his jacket, seeking skin. "Please."
Understanding dawned in his eyes. He shrugged off his coat and then helped me with his flannel shirt's buttons while I walked us backward toward my bedroom. We'd done this dance before, but never with such urgency.
Within minutes, we were buck naked. Shock still entered my system every time I witnessed the youthfulness of Holden's body. The only way I could be with someone like him was to recognize that his soul was so much older.
I grabbed lube and a condom from the nightstand as I pushed him backward onto the bed. His face flushed. "Wade, I love… damn, I love you."
I chuckled softly and planted myself flat on my back. "Do you like to ride? I want you to ride."
He bit his lip, and it drove me nuts like always. I slowly rolled the condom over my hard cock while Holden straddled me. I whispered, "First, you'll need this."
Covering two fingers thickly in lube, I slowly worked them up inside Holden while he rolled his head back. Almost every time we had sex, he showered attention on me. I owed him this.
With my free hand, I rolled his balls gently and then tugged. He hissed in response, and I knew I was on the right track.
I gripped his hips and gently, but firmly, pressed him downward onto my cock, letting gravity do its work. Holden pressed his open hands against my firm abs and began to slowly ride up and down.
It was a perfect way to help his body relax. He was so young and still perfectly flexible. I was in good shape, but my joints were starting to tell me about their age.
Rolling Holden over onto his back, I pushed his thighs up and back while I spread more lube on the outside of the condom. and plunged inside.
"Oh… oh… " He started to whimper slightly and closed his eyes.
"Okay?"
"Yeah… yeah." Holden reached for his cock and began stroking it while I picked up a rhythm, rocking my cock in and out.
"So amazing," I managed to choke out. "I've never been with… ah, fuck, it won't be long."
Holden opened his eyes, and I watched as he glanced at my scars. Fuck… forget about it . I willed myself to stay hard. It was the man I loved.
I wanted him to cum with me, if possible. "Close?"
He grunted. "Yeah, getting there. You… aww, fuck."
I plowed harder and deeper. "Yeah, I'm there. I'm gonna…"
I howled, and my body shuddered. I came, emptying my load into the condom, pretending it was deep inside Holden.
Seconds later, he shot hard against my abs. A half-smile appeared on my face. Holden grinned, and that broke the dam. I smiled and laughed as I collapsed onto the bed.
After, with sweat cooling on our skin, Holden traced patterns on my chest. "Talk to me. What's got you wound so tight? You seem a little… tense."
"I'm fine."
He traced a single fingertip down my cheek. "Are you?"
I couldn't hide a damn thing from him. "I can't—" My voice broke. "I can't be the reason you stay. The reason you give up—"
"Stop." He pressed his lips to my shoulder. "Nobody's giving up anything."
"Portland. The magazine. Your art deserves—"
"You." His voice was firm. "I deserve you. And you deserve me. The rest is just logistics."
His phone chimed multiple times in quick succession. Holden reached for it, reading the messages with a slight frown forming on his face. "Maria says Mom's moving beyond the kitchen and rearranging furniture. Apparently, Dad's trying to convince her we need a new coffee machine." He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "And Grandpa's encouraging both of them, probably enjoying the chaos."
I watched him pull away, already missing his warmth. The mattress shifted as he sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. It was already dark outside, and had to grip the mattress to stop myself from pulling him back down.
"I should go." He turned to look at me, his expression soft. "You know how Mom gets when she's nervous about something. Last time she stress-organized, Grandpa's sock drawer ended up color-coded by season."
"By season?"
"Don't ask." Holden stood, gathering his scattered clothes. I watched him dress, each layer hiding the skin I'd been mapping with my lips and fingers minutes before. His movements were unhurried but purposeful as if he was trying to extend our time without actually staying.
At the bedroom door, he paused. "You know this doesn't change anything, right? The magazine, Portland—they're just possibilities. Not exit routes."
I couldn't meet his eyes. "You should be excited about those possibilities. Not worried about leaving a small-town ranger behind."
"Hey." He crossed back to the bed, cupping my face in his hands. "Look at me."
I did, drowning in his gaze.
"I love you." His thumbs brushed my cheekbones. "Even when you're being ridiculous about deserving things. Even when you try to push me away because you think it's for my own good." He kissed me softly. "Especially then."
His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it and chuckled. "Now Dad's explaining the optimal grind size for single-origin beans to Maria. I really need to rescue them."
"Go." I forced myself to smile. "Take care of your family."
"You're my family, too." He slung the Polaroid back around his neck. At the cabin door, he turned back one last time. "We'll figure this out, Wade. Together."
I listened to his car start, gravel crunching under tires as he pulled away. The cabin was too quiet in his wake as if all the oxygen had followed him out the door. His scent lingered on my sheets.
For three years, I'd cultivated solitude like a shield. Now, it felt less like protection and more like exile. In the void, something else stirred. There was an idea taking shape where Holden's absence had been.
The therapy sketches I'd done after Chicago caught my eye, spread across my coffee table where I'd been reviewing them earlier. Something clicked.
I grabbed a fresh notebook, and words suddenly poured out faster than I could write them down. Art therapy in nature. Using different mediums to process trauma and connect with the environment. Holden's eye for beauty combined with my experience in recovery.
My hand cramped as I filled out page after page. Veterans groups, first responders, and anyone needing space to heal—we could start small—weekend workshops by the lake, combining hiking with creative expression. The shelter's murals could be a centerpiece, showing how art preserves memory and processes pain.
My fingers itched to research, to validate that the idea wasn't just a nighttime fantasy. The laptop's glow filled my kitchen as I typed "art therapy nature programs" into the search bar. Results cascaded down my screen: "eco-art therapy," "wilderness art healing," "environmental arts rehabilitation."
Something tightened in my chest—not disappointment that the idea wasn't original, but relief. Other people were already using the concept. It worked. Studies from veterans' programs in California showed reduced PTSD symptoms. A center in Oregon combined hiking with artistic expression for first responders.
I clicked through photos of outdoor art studios, reading testimonials from participants who'd found their voice through paint and pencils under open skies. One image showed a group sketching by a lake, their faces reflecting the same peace I felt during early morning swims.
The validation fueled my excitement. I opened a new document and started outlining how we could adapt the proven approaches for Michigami State Park. We had advantages others didn't—Holden's eye for capturing healing moments, my firsthand understanding of trauma, and the shelter's history of artistic restoration.
I fumbled for my phone, texting Maya:
Remember that grant proposal about expanding community programs? The one collecting dust in the files?
Her reply came quickly:
The one you said was too ambitious? It's in my desk. Why?
I grinned in the darkness.
We need to update it. Think bigger. Art therapy + nature. Your environmental ed background would be perfect.
The ideas kept flowing. We could partner with the VA hospital in Milwaukee. Set up rotating exhibitions in the visitor center. Create a space where Holden could grow his artistic vision while staying connected to Blue Harbor.
My phone lit up again. It was Tom texting:
Whatever you're planning, count me in.
I laughed out loud, the sound echoing off my cabin walls. For the first time in years, possibilities didn't feel like threats. They felt like promises.
Sleep was impossible, with the ideas crackling through my veins. At four AM, I traded my notes for hiking boots and a thermos of coffee. It was too cold for a swim. The trail would help me think—it always did.
The north trail parking lot held one other vehicle: Mike Sullivan's battered Jeep. He was a regular during my early patrols, though we rarely exchanged more than nods. Marine Force Recon, according to the faded sticker on his bumper. Like me, he seemed to find more peace in dawn silence than in counseling sessions.
Frost crunched under my boots as I climbed. The beam of my headlamp caught ice crystals on late autumn leaves, transforming them into natural stained glass. It was the kind of detail Holden would capture while I walked past until he taught me how to see.
I found Mike at Eagle Point, a solid shadow against dawn's earliest light. He had his usual thermos and what looked like a sketchbook propped on his knee.
"Ranger." He didn't look up from whatever he was drawing.
"Sullivan." I settled on the adjacent boulder, respecting the careful distance we'd maintained over months of shared sunrises. "Ice on the upper switchbacks."
"Noted."
We watched pink light bleed into the eastern sky. Lake Michigan stretched steel-gray to the horizon, where night still held its ground. A pair of sandhill cranes called overhead, their ancient voices carrying clearly in the cold air.
Mike's pencil moved steadily across his page. I'd never asked about his art before—it would have been an invasion violating an unspoken agreement. But now...
"You come up here to draw often?"
His pencil paused. "VA therapist's idea. Said it might help with the..." He gestured vaguely at his head. "Noise."
"Does it?"
"Sometimes." He angled the sketchbook slightly. Strong lines captured the lake's late autumn mood, darker shadows suggesting depths beneath the surface. "Better than talking, anyway. Can't BS your way through a drawing."
"No. You can't."
The sun crested the horizon, setting the lake aflame. Mike added a few quick strokes to suggest the light's path across the water.
"Your photographer got me thinking about it," he said after a while. "How he sees this place. Makes it look like somewhere worth seeing in different moods."
"You've seen his work?"
"Blog posts at the VA. Nurse prints them out sometimes, puts them up in the waiting room." He closed his sketchbook. "That series about the storm damage repairs? How the community pulled together?" A ghost of a smile touched his face. "Reminded me of my unit. How we'd rebuild things. Make them stronger."
Understanding bloomed. This was why I'd come out here—not just to think but to see if my midnight inspiration could help people who needed it.
"What if—" I gripped my thermos tighter. "What if we had a program here? Art therapy, but outdoors. Using the trails, the shelter, the lake."
Mike's silence stretched long enough that I started to regret speaking. Then:
"Group stuff?"
"Optional group components. But also individual work. Different mediums—photography, drawing, whatever helps tell the story."
He nodded slowly. "Lot of guys at the VA... they can't do indoor sessions. Too confined. Too formal." His fingers drummed on his sketchbook. "But something like this..."
"Yeah."
The sun continued to rise. Mike stood, tucking his sketchbook into his jacket.
"Let me know if you get it going." He shouldered his pack. "Might know some people who'd be interested."
I watched him descend, his footsteps sure on the icy trail. He didn't look back, but he didn't need to. We'd said more in those few minutes than in months of shared silences.
The ideas continued to flow. I pulled up the notes app on my phone, fingers flying:
Individual and group options
Multiple artistic mediums
Flexible scheduling for different comfort levels
Partnership with VA
Focus on strength through rebuilding
The ideas flowed faster now, grounded in real needs rather than abstract theory. I thought about Mike's strong lines capturing the lake's depths and how art could speak truths that words sometimes couldn't reach.
Below me, Lake Michigan changed colors with the rising sun, each shade telling its own story. I understood why Holden took three photos every morning—some things needed to be witnessed from multiple angles before you could see their proper shape.
I took my own path down, thoughts already racing toward the next steps. The trail had given me what I needed—not just inspiration but confirmation. It wasn't just a way to keep Holden close; it was a way to help others find their path back to solid ground.
Sunlight crept through my cabin's windows as I made fresh coffee. I thought about Jenkins, who'd always said the best rescues were where you helped people find their own way home. Maybe he'd been right. Maybe love wasn't about holding on or letting go but about building new paths forward.
The knock on my cabin door came just as I was pinning another set of program notes to my increasingly crowded bulletin board. I recognized Sarah's particular rhythm—three quick taps followed by humming.
"It's open," I called, not bothering to hide the papers scattered across every surface. Sarah had an uncanny ability to see through any attempt at concealment anyway.
She bustled in carrying a basket that steamed in the cool air. The scent hit me immediately—cardamom, vanilla, and something more decadent that made my mouth water.
"Rafe's been conducting experiments." Sarah set the basket on the only clear corner of my kitchen counter. "He says you're his control group because you always tell the truth about baked goods, even when it hurts his feelings."
"I told him once that his lavender scones tasted like soap."
"And he appreciated your honesty." Sarah unwrapped what looked like oversized muffins dusted with something that caught the light. "These are a prototype. He insisted you try them without me saying more."
I eyed the suspicious sparkle. "Is that—"
"Edible platinum dust? Yes. Rafe's going all out." She paused, studying my expression. "Which reminds me. Theo sent a message."
"Theo doesn't send messages." I tried one of the muffins despite my skepticism about edible metals. The flavor exploded on my tongue—rich dark chocolate with hints of espresso and sea salt. Damn Rafe and his culinary genius.
"He does when you're part of his inspiration." Sarah's eyes danced. "Those photos Holden's been taking of you? Theo says they changed how he sees the whole town. Says watching Holden capture you made him understand what it means to really see something you love."
I nearly choked on the muffin. "What?"
"'Tell the ranger,'" Sarah quoted, clearly enjoying herself, "'that being the subject of Holden's lens taught me more about artistic devotion than ten years of painting workshops.' His words, not mine." She picked up a muffin, examining its architecture. "Though I agree. You gave Holden's art something special, Wade. Even if you try to pretend otherwise."
I gestured at the cabin's walls. "I'm just—"
"His muse? Yeah, we've all noticed. He lights up when he talks about capturing your early morning swims."
I shook my head. "I'm not anyone's muse."
"Really? Theo says Holden's work has evolved more in the past few months than most artists have managed in years. Something about how love makes you see familiar things with new eyes."
Sarah began unpacking more baked goods. "Which is why Rafe also sent these."
She produced miniature art canvases made of shortbread, each decorated with edible watercolors in familiar patterns. I recognized several of Holden's Polaroid compositions—the lighthouse at dawn, the storm shelter entrance, and me emerging from misty waters.
"He's been practicing food painting for weeks." Sarah arranged them carefully. If we're celebrating Holden's success, we should honor what inspired it. Even the parts that try to hide from attention."
I picked up one of the cookie canvases. The detail was incredible—somehow, Rafe had captured how Holden framed his morning shots, finding beauty in ordinary moments.
"You know what else Theo said?" Sarah perched on my kitchen stool, helping herself to coffee. "He said watching you let Holden photograph you—really photograph you, not just surface shots—taught him something about artistic trust. About letting someone see past your walls."
"Sarah—"
"Oh, hush. Let me have my romantic moment." She bit into a muffin, platinum dust sparkling on her lips. "I've got money riding on you two in the coffee shop betting pool."
"You're betting on us?"
"Honey, this whole town's invested in your love story. The bets are our way of making it official." She brushed crumbs from her hands. "Though between you and me, you've already won us all over. Especially with this." She tapped my program notes. "It's perfect—using art the way Holden used it with you. Helping others find their way back."
"How did you know?"
"Maya said it didn't take long to figure it out."
I studied the shortbread paintings, each one capturing how Holden saw me. They were not broken or scarred but worth preserving. "Do you think it could work?"
Sarah spoke carefully. "I think that you're living proof it already does." She stood, brushing off crumbs. "Sometimes the best therapy is showing others it's possible to be loved as you are."
She gathered her basket and paused by the door. "Oh, and Wade? The actual celebration pastries will be even better. These are merely practice runs."
After she left, I sat surrounded by edible art and the lingering scent of cardamom. I picked up another shortbread canvas. This one showed me at Eagle Point, teaching Maya's nature class. Rafe had somehow captured the exact moment Holden always waited for—when I forgot about my scars and just existed in the joy of sharing what I loved.
It's kind of like now.
I reached for my phone to text Holden, then stopped. Some things needed sharing in person, over fresh coffee and pastries that sparkled like the future we were building.
Instead, I texted Sarah:
Tell Rafe he's a genius. But if he puts platinum dust in the actual celebration batch, I'm filing a ranger incident report.
Her reply came instantly:
It's too late. He's already ordered five pounds of edible gold leaf, and he says Holden's art deserves nothing less.
I laughed out loud, the sound echoing off my cabin walls. Three years ago, I'd chosen Blue Harbor as a place to hide. Instead, it had become the place where I finally found myself and could put together plans to help others do the same.