6. Dripping Wet

SIX

Dripping Wet

T he tin roof thundered, just as it had for the last eight days.

Luca cupped the mug of packet soup, his elbows propped on the porch railing. The ceramic was warm against his hands, with the cheap-but-comforting smell of creamy chicken noodle rising up to greet him. The aroma was especially comforting now, with the wind cold and surprisingly brisk against his upturned collar. The stray mist collected on the bleeding heart flowers—little crystals among fuchsia and white.

He sipped the salty brew, watching the rain cascade down the shed's roof, staring for long minutes at the overflowing water tank, forming its own little river down the hill.

And as he did so, Luca thought about Artair. The man he hadn't seen since he'd broken his vow of celibacy.

The warm cup reminded him of body heat, making his mind wander to what it might be like to curl up next to him through this storm, naked and willing. To press their lips together, feeling his beard rough and heartbeat light as the rain drummed around them. To feel their bare bodies embrace, soft and hard in all the right places.

To find the release they didn't get to experience.

For the first few days of the storm, the memory of their kiss had hung heavy inside Luca, made worse by the dreary days with nothing but his silent voice and loud mind.

It came with a weight of frustration. Not at Artair, but with himself—for giving in, for failing in his task, for doing all the things he'd explored so academically .

He'd been so smug about those little scribbles on celibacy, hadn't he? So detached and professional and so fucking pleased with his turns of phrase.

But no amount of wordplay could hide the fact that he'd put himself in an awful position. One that he didn't know how to escape.

And yet, as the days wore on, that self-directed anger turned to worry about the man who'd broken his feeble resolve. Because Luca dreaded to think what Artair must be going through right now.

After all, last week Artair had all his clothes out to dry after one morning of rain. Now it had been over a week, and this downpour was far harder.

Was his ancient tent even waterproof?

Was he even able to keep dry?

The poor guy had to be struggling out there. Shaking in the storm. Unable to light a fire. Relying on whatever rations he could keep from the rain.

It was a terrible thought, made worse by the fact that Luca couldn't do a damn thing about it. He was stuck in the tower, unable to leave.

As much as Luca had originally scoffed at that idea, Sandy had convinced him of the risk. As she said, pine trees had tons of oil in them. And anyone who'd thrown a handful of soaking needles onto a fire would agree that they never stayed wet for long.

All it would take was one well-placed lightning strike and the reason for his posting would become very obvious, very quickly.

Still, he tapped his rubber soles impatiently against the soaked wood. Because Luca had seriously considered ignoring Sandy's instructions of staying put. Of braving the squall and making sure that Artair was okay.

And why shouldn't he? Every inch of the woods was surely too damp to catch fire now . Even a pine tree couldn't burst into flames when it was practically underwater!

But just as that tantalizing doubt took hold, a blinding light tore through the dark, spiking down in jagged blades just a few hundred feet from the tower. It was joined a few moments later with a boom that deafened the valley, shaking the floorboards for a full minute of terrifying call and response with the wild.

This high up, the lightning seemed like a scream from some ancient god. A roar that told Luca not to doubt the havoc that could come at any moment.

No , Luca thought, as Sandy's ragged radio voice hissed through the open door, demanding another update. I guess not .

Besides, Artair wasn't an idiot. He knew these wilds far better than Luca did. And if he found himself in any real trouble, he'd come and ask for help.

The pages came and went from the typewriter, keys clicking in time with the rooftop drumming.

It was midmorning—not that you could tell, the light totally strangled by the clouds.

Luca had used every word he could think of to describe the rain. Precipitation. Deluge. Shower. Downpour. But even he couldn't make ten whole days of it sound epic anymore.

Every urge in the pit of his soul—the same pit that had long endured rejection for refusing to sugarcoat his words—begged to write truthfully about Artair. To talk about his body. His smile. His easy manner. His incredible contradictions.

Rough but soft.

Commanding but playful.

Kind but strong.

To detail the temptation that Luca wasn't strong enough to fight.

To explain why he'd failed . . .

Yes, it was just a kiss. And an over-the-clothes grope. But Macy had been clear that nothing was allowed to happen. That was their deal. And the straight community considered a kiss and a squeeze way more scandalous than the gays—who generally thought nothing of making out with a friend if they got bored.

But what was he supposed to do now?

Was he supposed to just stop writing? Throw the pages into a fire and give up on the project?

Or was he supposed to waste his time and write the truth in all its squishy details, knowing that the Gazette couldn't risk printing an article like that? That no newspaper could.

Or was he supposed to write a lie? To pretend like the kiss had never happened and that he'd been celibate this whole time?

And if he did lie... what the hell would that even look like? Would that mean sentencing himself to a lifetime of wondering when the scandal might break? Of waking every morning in a pool of sweat, scared that that today it would all unravel?

He knew the risk of getting caught was low. Artair didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd go public—he'd barely tolerated being included under a code name, after all. The last thing the man seemed to want was fame .

But the threat would always be there, wouldn't it? Gnawing away in the background. Just waiting for the perfect moment to ruin his reputation.

Luca stared at the page.

He knew that he should just give up. Accept his defeat.

That was the honest choice.

The right choice.

He'd made his reputation on exploring the truth. On showing reality no matter the consequences. And the thought that his first big break would be based on a lie made his stomach churn. Not just in fear, but disgust .

But... that would mean his entire time out here was for nothing! That would mean he'd leave this place just as broke and unemployed as when he arrived. That would mean all the social change he could make with his future writing would never be realized. That would mean he might never get properly published—because you didn't get second chances as good as this!

Luca gathered the paper in his hands, far heavier than ten sheets had any right to be.

Among the later paragraphs, between preparing for dinner with Artair and the storm that followed it, was a glaring chunk of empty space—deliberately left.

The section that he didn't know how to write.

The section that would define the integrity of the piece.

The section that would define the integrity of him .

Luca didn't know how long he stared at that blank space, just listening to the forest collapse around him, imagining what kind of story he might fill it with. Because no matter how pretty he made the words, there were only two choices.

He could write a lie that the Gazette could publish.

Or write the truth that they couldn't.

The longer Luca stared at the space, the more that ghosts of past stories seemed to haunt him.

All those people he'd met.

All those people he'd done justice to.

All those people he'd been honest about.

All those people—silent and mistreated and ignored and vilified—whose truths he'd brought to life.

Stories about real people, real hopes, real fears, real desires, real loves, and real sex .

Stories that weren't proper .

Stories that weren't polite .

Stories that mainstream society didn't want to hear.

Stories that mainstream society didn't think should be told!

Hands shaking, Luca fed the somber page into the typewriter, lining up the ribbon with the start of the blank space.

He braced himself to do what had to be done. To swallow the bitter pill of deception for the sake of his career. To write the lie that would keep the opportunity alive.

Luca could see the text forming in his mind, how the lies would appear in newsprint. He could see the bold font of the headline. He could see his little photograph in the corner. He could see the pages being carried around major cities under people's arms. He could see the folded sheets around board rooms and dining tables—sparking conversations that wouldn't exist without him.

He could see his name being spoken. Being praised. Being brought up around water coolers and radio shows.

He could see his writing taking the nation by storm...

But the words wouldn't fucking come.

Because every time he tried to type, his fingers went rigid against the keys.

Because every time he tried to lie, a teenage voice in a terrible green fedora screamed for him to stop.

Because every time he tried to betray his principles, he thought back to a framed leaflet by his childhood desk.

So you always remember to follow your beliefs, Ni?o.

A tear rolled down his cheek—just another drop among the endless storm.

And as the thunder tore the sky in two, Luca knew the answer, terrible as it was.

He couldn't write a lie.

He wouldn't write a lie.

Instead, Luca regathered the papers, shuffled them into neat and precise order, and dumped them into the wastepaper basket under the desk.

He'd fucked up his opportunity.

And now, he had to live with that.

No sooner had he ended the article for good, then there came an unexpected knock from behind.

Out on the porch—soaked to the bone and lit intermittently by spears of lightning—was Artair.

The darkness across Luca's mood lifted. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up!"

Even though Artair was out of the rain, it still ran in torrents off his cap, the hair stuck to his forehead. Bowie was at his feet, his fur twice as big as the last time Luca had seen him.

Luca rushed over with a laugh, glad the man had finally seen reason and come for help. "God, look at you! You're soaking wet and?—"

Thin.

Not thin , thin. A football tackle doesn't turn into a twink in the space of a ten days. But still, there was some loss of fullness in Artair's cheeks. A compactness to his previously impressive frame. And alongside both, some dull to the glint in his emerald eyes.

Artair smiled under his gaze, warm but washed-out. "Thanks," he said over the roar of the rain, "but I won't stay. I just wanted to stop by on my way out."

Luca froze.

Your way out . . . ?

Only then did he notice the full hiking pack against the porch rails. The olive-green fabric was swollen with water, almost bursting at the seams. And beside it was the final confirmation: Artair's guitar case, waterproof and covered with old roadie stickers.

Snapped shut.

Closed.

Just like Artair's summer.

"Oh," said Luca, quietly .

He didn't know what else to say. He'd assumed the man would come to him for help when it all became too hard. He hadn't thought for one moment that Artair would choose to leave entirely.

"Yeah," said Artair, shuffling on the spot. "I was meaning to stay longer. But the rain's put a dampener to that."

Luca smiled weakly. "Another dork joke?"

"Unintentional? But I'll claim it."

Luca's mind raced with all the other things he'd let this man claim. All those things that he'd daydreamed about in the hours of cold and gray.

Standing on the doorstep, soaked and shivering, Artair suddenly seemed to shine with so much promise, wasted. So much opportunity, unfulfilled.

"It's... it's not you or anything," said Artair. "I probably just overcommitted with the whole live wild off the land stuff."

On cue, Artair's stomach gave a ferocious growl, so loud and so sustained that Bowie jumped from where he'd fallen asleep, eyeing the still substantial belly with curiosity.

It would have been cute if it weren't so tragic. In this state, the man looked wretched, and Luca could only imagine how awful it must have been for him.

Hungry.

Freezing.

Soaked.

Alone.

"Well," said Artair, swaying so badly that it looked like he might collapse. "I guess that's my cue. I just wanted to say that I'm glad I got to?—"

Luca didn't hear any words past that. He didn't fully understand what was going on—why Artair would just up and leave like this, rather than ask for help—but he knew one thing for certain: this was not how Artair's summer was going to end. People were free to make their own choices in life, but this was ridiculous.

"Oh no you don't," said Luca, dragging him inside by the dripping collar and plonking him down, wet and heavy, onto the desk chair. "Look at yourself. You're starving. How long has it been since you've eaten anything?"

Artair shrugged with one arm and tapped the window with the other, leaving a trail of drops across the desk from his saturated shirt sleeve. "I couldn't exactly start a fire."

Luca's mind flooded with a hundred competing responses. He settled for simply hissing, " Idiot! "

"I..." Artair at first looked shocked, and then overwhelmingly sheepish. There was no way he could argue back, not in the contrasting faces of the only two people in the tower. One was well-fed and dry and warm; the other was dripping wet and cold and looked like they might faint from hunger at any moment. "Yeah, that's probably fair."

" Yeah , it is. What the hell was the plan? That you'd do a fifteen-hour hike through a howling storm? Then hitchhike all the way to San Francisco?"

"It's what I usually do. Minus the storm."

Luca tutted like a disappointed mother as he scooted around the tower. He pulled out a towel that Artair tried to refuse, before Luca slapped it over his head like a brightly colored shawl. Luca yanked out the largest clothes he had, the ones usually reserved for sleeping, and dropped them dramatically onto the driest part of the desk.

"I'll be fine!" Artair said in feeble protest. "It's really not that far to hike and?—"

"Listen, you handsome moron. Here's what's going to happen: You're going to dry off, put on those clothes, and sit your ass down while I make you something to eat. And if you even think about reaching for that hiking pack, there will be trouble ."

"But... I don't want to get in your way!"

"Clearly!" said Luca, making a threatening gesture with a plastic spatula. "Which is a great instinct to be found in six months' time as a skeleton. You're staying here until the rain lets up, so quit complaining and get naked."

"Yes, Daddy," he said, still mischievous despite his audibly groaning stomach. "Will you help me get dressed?"

Luca gave him a slap on the chest with the cooking utensil, the impact sending a spray of drops onto the floor. "Only if you're a good boy."

The lunchtime meal was nothing to speak of, but Artair treated it like the finest banquet ever cooked, scarfing down portion after portion until he was full and content and sitting obediently in the office chair, dressed in old sweats and a stretched-out shirt.

"Don't judge me, okay," said Luca, as he dished out another portion of rice and salami. "I'm usually a better cook than this. I'm just stuck with the ingredients out here."

" You're stuck?" said Artair, shoveling the fork between his beard. "How do you think it was for me?"

"Terrible, I'd imagine? Particularly because you're a total moron ?" Luca gave him a gentle kick with his bare feet, before reburying his toes into the rug. "You knew that a storm meant I couldn't leave the tower, right? My boss back in Seattle said that you've been around fire watches before? And the way you laughed when the rain and the lightning came? You knew? "

Artair's chomping slowed. "Yeah, I knew."

"So why didn't you come here sooner? And why were you going to disappear into the night rather than ask to stay?"

There was the slightest guilt in his glance. "Look, I've met my share of fire watches. The people who take this job aren't looking for company . They like the isolation. They like their own space. And they definitely aren't looking for some random to hang around a tiny room for days on end."

"But you aren't a random. You're my fucking Red Bear ."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you've got a duty to help me. Hikers this remote are expected to take care of themselves."

"Seriously? You think I'd need a duty to help you?"

"I mean... yeah? Like you said, I'm just some idiot who couldn't sort their shit out. I don't deserve anyone's help. Least of all yours."

Luca paused at that. There was some bitterness there—not directed toward him, but internal. Artair's big shoulders were hunched, defeated.

Luca glanced towards the wastepaper basket.

He knew the feeling all too well.

"Hey, don't beat yourself up," he said. "You were doing great until the storm came. I'd have starved weeks ago."

Artair shrugged dismissively.

Luca leaned against the bench. "What was the original plan? How long did you think you'd last?"

Artair gave him a long look, and Luca remembered when they'd fished for trout by the cabin—how reluctant Artair had been to talk about what he did for work. What his plans were after the summer.

How reluctant he'd been to talk about anything real .

"I dunno," said Artair, eventually. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"Yeah, but . . . you won't understand. Trust me."

Luca give Artair another soft kick, smiling this time. "I'll be nice, I promise. No matter what your story is, I've heard stranger. Trust me. "

Again, Artair stared at him. Still hunched. Still defeated. And in his stance was something of the storm. The cold and the wind and the rain. "I... can't. I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because you'll just get mad."

Luca cocked his head. He couldn't imagine anything Artair might say to make him mad—beyond starving himself in the wild. "Why would I get mad?"

"Look, just promise you won't get angry, okay? Please? "

That plea almost broke Luca's heart.

It was so small.

So . . . desperate .

Artair's gaze was heavy with a vulnerability that Luca hadn't seen on him before. He didn't understand what was happening. Why Artair seemed so affected. Why he was worried that telling his story would make Luca mad.

But he wanted to find out.

"Of course."

Artair sighed heavily, clutching the sleeping fox closer on his lap. "The truth is... I didn't have any plans for how long I'd be camping. Because that's not how I planned to spend my summer."

"Really? What were you going to do instead?"

The guilt in Artair's gaze was so heavy now that it made Luca's head spun.

And then it hit him .

Artair's familiarity with these wilds.

His knowledge of the cabin and its contents.

Sandy's questions about whether Artair had stayed.

The way Artair had arrived on this mountain on the very first day of summer.

The way everything here seemed so established and ready to be occupied!

"Oh shit," whispered Luca. "This is your tower."

Artair at least had the decency to look embarrassed, sinking farther into the chair. "I mean, technically it's the Government's tow?—"

"So all of this is yours?" Luca interrupted, flailing his arms around the room. "Your books. Your posters. Your typewriter. Your rugs. Your garden and beehives and sheds?"

Bowie snorted awake at Luca's raised voice, wandering from Artair's lap onto the bed.

Artair tapped his finger's together, the blush spreading all the way up to his temple, half-covered in a messy flop of hair. "I can't claim the typewriter. That's been here since the thirties, apparently."

Luca's eye twitched, trying hard to not get mad. Or, more accurately, trying not to show it. "But the rest is yours?"

"Yeah . . . Kind of . . . ?"

"How long?"

Artair stared up at the wood-beam ceiling, still pounding with rain. "Hmmm?"

"Oh no, the cute and innocent act won't save you. How many summers did you live in this tower for? "

"Gosh, it's so hard to remember."

"Artair!"

"Ummm . . . six?"

" Six!? "

"You said you wouldn't get mad!"

"Why... how... when..." Luca shook his head, trying to force the burning questions into an orderly queue. "Why didn't you say something when you first saw me?"

"I dunno, it all seemed kinda obvious?"

"This is the opposite of obvious. "

Artair raised his hands, like he was trying to calm a charging bull. "Look, the Forest Service has been saying for years that they'll switch to an annual application for fire watches. And they never did—they just let whoever currently staffs the tower have it again and again until they retire or resign. I had no idea that they'd finally followed through. I just turned up at the start of the summer like I normally would. And when I saw you here, it was pretty clear what had happened."

"How could you not know about the changes? Sandy must have told you? You've known her for six years , right?"

"Yes..." said Artair awkwardly. "Except she didn't know where I was or how to contact me?"

"Huh?"

"I don't have a mobile."

"What about an email?"

"Or that."

"Home address?"

"Nope. Sorry."

"How... How can you not have any of those things?"

"I dunno? I just prefer doing stuff face-to-face?"

Luca shook, trying to channel the confusion into rational sentences. "Artair... I've been living in this tower for a whole month thinking that you wanted to be in that tent by the river. That it was some kind of plan. And instead, I'm now finding out that you were homeless and trapped and unemployed because of me ! That you were soaked and freezing and literally starving because of me ! That every night you went to bed shaking and hungry and hurt was because of me !"

Artair's face sank in terrible understanding. "Luca . . ."

"No! How could you not tell me?" he said, tears forming. All he could think about was the long days of thunderous rain and the frozen nights of rumbling bellies. All he could think about was that he'd caused all of that. "Do you have any idea what that feels like? To be responsible for all that and not even get to choose?"

Artair enveloped Luca in his big, strong arms before the tears got any worse. He held him close, Artair's beard rubbing affectionally against his cheek, as if his whiskers could clear the streams of salt. "You've got it all wrong, buddy. Don't blame yourself."

"How?" Luca sniffed, returning the hug on instinct. His arms melted into Artair's softness, warm and gentle. "How could I possibly have it all wrong ?"

"Because I did want to stay by the river. I could have turned around and headed back to the highway any time I wanted. Or explained everything to you and asked to borrow some food. Or used the radio and let Sandy know what had happened. There are a thousand fire lookouts across the country. And if they've all been filled with rookies, then at least one would've been staffed with some kid who flaked out and a quick replacement was needed. I could have found somewhere to go and a way to get paid. But I didn't want to do that. I knew the cabin was down there. I knew the old gear was there. And when I saw you here, I got the crazy idea to just see how long I could live on my knowledge of the woods. I've wanted to try the smoking hut for years, but there's never been time to set it up away from the tower. I'm not saying the cold and the hunger was fun. But it was exciting . It was an adventure."

Luca shook his head against the neckhole of Artair's t-shirt, soft and brimming with hair. Just a few hours earlier, the shirt had been his. Now, it already smelled of Artair. "You're just saying that."

Artair snorted. "Luca, I'm almost twenty-five, and I've never once had an apartment."

That gave Luca pause. "Really?"

"Or a house. Or a mobile phone. Or an email address. Or any of that crap. Since I was seventeen, I've lived on couches and tents and trailers and taken jobs that've given me somewhere to sleep. I worked one winter at a Canadian ski resort, with twenty guys to a dormitory. I've spent three springs as a deckhand on a cruise ship out of Hawaii. I've slept under bars when they closed. I did a whole season as a ghost in a haunted house, just so I could sleep in the attic after hours. And all of that has been by choice. I know it sounds crazy, but I like that kind of stuff. Trying new things. Making up plans as they come. Challenging myself. Just seeing where the wind takes me!"

Luca did his best to process that. Even if it did sound a little crazy—voluntarily putting yourself in awful situations just for the thrill of the experience—the way Artair's voice peaked gave it a ring of truth. It was the same excitement Artair had when running through the bowls of foraged food.

And if Luca thought back to each time he'd seen Artair, it was true that little seemed to faze him. Even that first time they'd met, when the man must have been shocked and confused with seeing someone else in his tower—of realizing that his whole summer was ruined—he hadn't seemed bothered.

And that, at least, made Luca feel better. It wasn't his fault that Artair went through that awfulness. Because Artair wanted that kind of challenge.

It also explained why he didn't ask Luca for help sooner. Why he'd wander off into the dark, rather than ask for shelter.

Because where was the challenge in that?

Where was the adventure in that?

The moment was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Hey Rookie," said Sandy, with an audible yawn. "How're the woods looking. Do we need to build an ark yet?"

Luca leaned back from the pillowy warmth of Artair's chest. They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment, the voice of their current and former boss making it all suddenly real—how many times Artair must have stood on this very spot, holding that very radio, talking to that very person.

Luca gestured to the desk. "Well, go on ."

"Really?"

"Sure. She's been working for ten days straight. The woman's a machine. I'm sure she could use the good news."

Artair didn't protest, obviously keen to catch up with an old friend. He took the microphone gingerly, clearing his throat a few times. "Hey there, Dunebug."

" Leprechaun! " Sandy snorted, the fatigue vanishing from her voice. "I wondered when you'd finally call in. You know you're a month late for your first shift?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I was busy."

"It's 2005. It might be time to get a mobile?"

"Ewww," said Artair, scrunching up his nose .

Sandy laughed. "Were they good gigs at least?"

"Yeah, they were! I ended up in Aspen for most of the last year. Do you know their ski season lasts all the way into spring?"

"Ewww," said Sandy, copying Artair's inflection. "Why would anyone want to spend spring in the snow? It's bad enough in winter."

"I know. But there were all these cute little bars that needed someone in the corner to play. There was even this tiny metal lounge in a basement that?—"

Luca snatched the receiver, the curly wire shuddering from the tension. "Okay, okay, this could go on for hours," he said, as much to the microphone as Artair. " You. Why didn't you tell me Artair was the usual fire watch?"

Rather than being chastened, Sandy was infuriatingly unfazed. "Why would I? If you'd both kicked up a stink and insisted the job was yours, I could have stepped in—mostly to mock Artair for costing himself a cushy summer gig. But he went away, and you stayed. And that's where it ended. How would you have benefited from knowing that you'd taken someone else's job?"

Luca glared back and forth between Artair and the receiver. Suddenly, a memory returned to him. From when he'd first seen the campfire. From when Sandy had given a curiously knowing laugh at the direction of the smoke. "Oh my God... You knew it was Artair by the cabin, didn't you? That he'd find something else to do with his season?"

"Yup," said Sandy. "Two miles northwest of Bleeding Heart? You should've heard the number of times he's talked about that damn cabin."

Before Luca could continue his grilling, he heard the drawn-out creak through the radio, like someone was leaning slowly back into a swivel chair.

When Sandy next spoke, Luca could almost taste her grin. "But you're right, Rookie. I should apologize. Keeping secrets is a terrible thing to do, right? Incidentally, how's your article coming along?"

Luca froze, eyes darting to the wastepaper basket. Sandy couldn't have known for certain that he and Artair had hooked up, or that he'd failed his pledge.

It was a shot in the dark.

A wild stab.

But she probably knew exactly what Artair's type was.

And exactly what might happen if the two of them met.

Artair raised an eyebrow, obviously picking up the significance of Sandy's words, even if he didn't know the details. After all, how could he know—Luca had deliberately kept the specifics from him. He'd only told Artair vague crap about the article being about his summer and his isolation. Nothing about the celibacy. Nothing about the stakes.

Luca's shoulders tensed.

So did Artair's.

Luca moved first, darting toward the crumpled story beneath the desk.

Artair moved slower, but he was closer to the bin, able to snatch the paper before Luca could.

In his panic, Luca tried to do three things at once—none of them successfully.

The first was dropping the receiver onto the floor, rather than returning it to its holster.

The second was flailing to grab the stack of paper from Artair, having them yanked out of his reach.

And the third was tripping over Bowie when he tried to lunge forward—the little fox having rejoined the group, probably curious about a familiar voice over the radio.

The result was Luca spinning on his heels, tumbling once again into the position that Artair had dubbed the Seattle Greeting .

"Oh?" said Artair, shuffling the paper. After a few moments his voice became heavy with understanding. " Oh... "

Luca grunted from the floor. There was no point stammering out some excuse—after all, the opening lines of the article were all about his meeting at the Gazette . Explaining exactly why he couldn't write the spicy articles he really wanted. Explaining exactly why he'd taken a vow of celibacy. Explaining exactly what the stakes would be if he failed.

Bowie padded to Luca as he rolled himself out of doggy position. Luca sat on the floor, not meeting Artair's eyes—one of his thighs was cross-legged on the old rug, the other was resting against the storm-chilled wood. He patted the fox's head as he waited for Artair to speak again.

"Why didn't you tell me?" the man whispered.

Luca sighed. There was no point lying anymore. "Lots of reasons? Because I didn't want you to stop flirting with me? Because I thought I could control myself without you needing to know all this crap? Because I knew you'd turn hard and cold and distant, just like everyone else does?"

"I..." said Artair, stopping as soon as he started.

Because what was Artair going to say? That he wouldn't have stopped flirting? That he would've kept being fun and playful and mischievous?

No, he couldn't say that. Because that would be a lie. Because Artair would have dropped the flirting to zero percent if he'd know about this. He'd have turned as cold as the storm .

Just like Luca would have freaked out if Artair had told him about the tower when they'd first met. Because he'd have felt awful and insisted that Artair take the job instead of him.

Artair shuffled the papers, giving a sigh of his own. He met Luca's gaze with a weak smile. "We're idiots, aren't we?"

"Yeah," said Luca, softly. "And look, you can have this job back, if you want it. It's not like I need to be out here anymore."

Artair glanced at the wastepaper basket—now empty.

To Luca's surprise, Artair didn't grill him on why he'd thrown the story away. Why he'd given up rather than writing a lie and pretending that they'd never kissed. It was like the man instantly understood that it wasn't an option.

Instead, he brought Luca up from the floor and into another hug. Luca accepted it gratefully, the man rubbing slow and warm against his upper back.

"You should keep the job," said Artair. "Even if you aren't going to write that article, maybe just take the time to be out here? To think of what you might do next?"

"But what about you?"

"Eh." He shrugged, lifting Luca from the ground slightly. "The next food drop is in a couple of weeks, right? I can get Sandy to send me some supplies. Maybe I'll do the same as you, just chill out in the forest and think about what's next."

"Sure, but everything in this tower is yours and?—"

"Luca?"

He took the hint. "Okay, okay. Thank you."

Artair ran strong fingers over the back of Luca's neck. "And for the record, if I'd known it would cost you your job, I'd have cut the flirting out completely. I hope you don't think I'm some kind of fiend?"

"Oh, God no!" said Luca hurriedly, giving him a squeeze around the love handles. "I was right there with you. In any other situation I'd have pinned you down and ridden you dry by now."

Artair paused at that comment, then broke the hug completely, sitting back hurriedly in the desk chair.

Luca wasn't immediately sure why he'd done it.

And then, a few seconds later, it became fabric-strainingly obvious.

Beneath his sweatpants, Artair was rock hard. "Sorry! I swear I'm not trying to turn this into anything."

"God, maybe you are a fiend," said Luca, staring admiringly at the bulge.

Artair's ability to go from serious conversation to rock hard, with only the faintest stimulus, was an incredibly sexy trait. It made Luca dwell on how easy it would be to heat him up whenever he liked. Teasing him at inopportune times. Giving him an embarrassing boner in the middle of a mall or out at dinner.

Luca had to remind himself that the man was half-starved as well. If this was Artair under those constraints, he could only imagine what his virility would be like at full strength.

And then it hit him.

The article was gone.

The job offer was gone.

And Luca had no reason to be celibate anymore.

Oh . . . fuck . . .

Artair seeming to reach the same conclusion—no doubt helped by Luca's own cock bouncing to life in his jeans.

Artair leaned back into the chair, entwining his fingers behind his head. That pose made Luca's own dick swell even harder. The way the beefy arms revealed his messy armpit hair through the shirt. The way the soft stock of his midriff was exposed by the lift of the cotton. The way the tension from his splayed knees made the fabric around his iron bulge even more taut, emphasizing the girth beneath the gray.

"You, ah, aren't wearing underwear, are you?" muttered Luca.

"Not sure. Why don't you check?"

Artair sneered at that comment. Proud of himself. Knowing how good it sounded. In response, Luca throbbed so hard he thought the buttons might break on his jeans.

And just as Luca was about to throw his response into the dom-sub energy of the moment, Artair did the most adorable thing that Luca had ever seen.

Turning on a dime, Artair switched from a lounging power top and leaned forward, whispering exaggeratedly behind the back of his hand. "This is really hot and all, but if you want me to stop at any point, just say salami and I'll be a good boy."

Then, like an actor on a movie set, Artair returned to his prior come suck me position—powerful and commanding, as though his consent-seeking comment had never happened.

In response, Luca leaned over the man, a hand on either side of the chair. "And what if I don't want you to be a good boy , Artair?"

Artair's lips were hot and close. "What would you rather I was, Luca ?"

"Nasty as hell?"

"Fuck yeah," Artair whispered, the grin spreading wide across his beautiful face.

Their mouths met in the space between, hot and hungry and suddenly alive with the knowledge that there was nothing stopping them this time. Artair's breath was as soft as his lips, bringing Luca in. Wanting more of him. Wanting all of him .

As their tongues melted together, Artair ran strong hands up Luca's ample thighs. Squeezing the full curves of his ass. Tracing the soft edges of each mound. Making Luca moan at his sensual touch.

Artair looked up at him, those green eyes glowing. "I want to fuck you so hard, Luca."

Luca's throb was so strong and so sustained that a drop of his arousal stained his navy jeans the color of midnight.

Without missing a beat, or breaking eye contact, Artair pushed Luca back and slid out his tongue, catching the drop of precum on its tip, innocent as an angel with a mouth full of denim.

"Jesus!" Luca groaned, thinking about those lips and that tongue and the promise of what Artair just said he wanted to do.

Fuck him.

Claim him.

Artair's tongue-tip pulled the sticky string of Luca's precum away from the jeans, swallowing it greedily.

Luca melted into the expert stimulation of the hungry man. After weeks of teasing and temptation, he wanted to taste him back. To make him throb back. To make him groan back.

"Oneproblem... God, how are you so good at that ," said Luca, struggling to maintain composure through the slow teasing of his cock. "One problem. I didn't bring any condoms."

Of course he hadn't. He'd never expected anything like this to happen. The whole summer was meant to be the opposite.

But where Luca might have expected annoyance, Artair's eyes glowed . Because the man was already one step ahead of him. "I got a clean sheet a few weeks before I left Aspen," he said, running his hands farther up Luca's thighs. "You?"

The realization made Luca's balls ache—for something he loved but rarely got to do. They were both grinning now. "Yeah, same."

Artair extended his tongue once more, running the wide warmth slowly across the outline of Luca's cock, all the way from balls to tip. "Looks like I'll have to breed you then?"

Luca ran his hand through Artair's hair, warm and still slightly damp from the storm. "You'd fucking better!"