2

I wake up slowly to a strip of light filtering through the window. The first thing I notice is there's an arm around my waist and a warm body against my back. The second thing I notice is something hard digging into my clothed ass.

Mind still foggy from sleep, I try to think past the confusion. I'm in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by the smell of cherries and fresh sweat, a large hand splayed across my stomach.

It dawns on me all at once. I'm cuddling my best friend.

In bed.

"What the—?"

Milo makes a noise in his sleep and pulls me closer, burying his nose into the back of my neck. Hips roll softly against mine in small, tired thrusts. Fuck, it feels good. What if I pressed back? Or if I turned around and lined my growing erection with his, matching his thrusts until we both unraveled?

Shit, shit, shit.

Biting back a gasp at the image, I grip the sheets and force myself to shift my hips away.

I need to get out of here.

Milo's arm is heavy with sleep, but I manage to lift it off. Grabbing my glasses from the nightstand, I shove them onto my face and scramble off the bed.

Groaning, Milo rolls over and throws a hand over his eyes. Early morning light casts warm lines over his skin, illuminating his tattoos. He looks like a fallen angel.

The duvet has drifted down below his hips, displaying his boner proudly tenting the front of his pajama pants. It doesn't leave much to the imagination. Jesus. I clear my throat and look away.

Milo yawns. "Is there a reason you woke me up or can I go back to bed?"

"You—no, you can sleep a little more. It's still early."

"Sweet." He's already half-asleep, seemingly not bothered by the situation in his pants. "Thanks, Cal."

"Yeah, dude. No problem."

A soft snore answers me. I need to have a shower and take care of the issue in my boxers, but I can't help staring at him. He looks sweet when he's sleeping, younger somehow.

I've only ever seen him like this when we're on the phone together, talking about absolutely nothing until he yawns and falls asleep still on the call. We haven't done that in almost a year. There's been no time; either I'm down at the bar or hosting one of my dorm parties, or Milo's out with some guy or studying for a test.

We've gotten good at putting each other off, citing our respective degrees—communications for me, psychology for Milo—as excuses.

This is the first time we've been this close in a while. It feels like coming home.

I'm careful not to touch myself in the shower. The last thing I need is for Milo to hear me jerking off and assume it's because of him. Even though it is.

In high school I used to hang around guys who skipped most periods and got off on disrupting whatever classes they did go to. One of them—Ethan—was my best friend at the time.

Looking back on it, he was a piece of shit, and I don't know why I stuck around. To feel included, maybe. He picked on Milo after word got around that he preferred guys to girls and, like the idiot I was, I followed suit. I would've done anything he asked.

Understandably, Milo hated him and, by extension, me.

Then something happened between me and Ethan. Something stupid. The next day at lunch he refused to talk to me. For the first time in years, I was on my own.

Milo found me sitting on the dingy bathroom floor of our high school, tears staining my cheeks. At that point, we hadn't spoken beyond trading insults, and I expected him to turn around and pretend he'd never seen me.

Instead, he shut the door, sat down beside me, and asked if I thought Captain America was better than Iron Man. We spent all of lunch arguing over superheroes and cracking stupid jokes. At one point I didn't realize I was crying, but Milo handed me a wad of tissues and half a chocolate bar without a word. From that moment on, I was hooked.

I couldn't believe he'd talk to me, not after the shit I'd said to him. It changed everything. He found me at my lowest point and, despite our past, was willing to be my friend. I would never do anything to jeopardize that.

Milo's still asleep when I finish my shower and shove on a pair of shorts and a random tee shirt. This one has holes in the collar and the front reads ‘ Of course I come fast, I've got fish to catch .' I screen-printed it at a shop in Portland years ago, before I got my own set-up at home.

I decide to take a walk around the motel while I wait for Milo to wake up. Greta is at the front desk and lets me know breakfast will be served in the diner behind the check-in area.

By the time I make it back to our room, my erection has flagged and I'm feeling less rough around the edges.

Milo's sitting on the bed when I enter, black hair falling in damp tendrils over his eyes. He looks unreasonably good in a tight-fitting black tee shirt and baggy jeans. He gets up when he sees me, that bright smile forming on his lips.

Relief, stark and brilliant, floods my chest. He doesn't hate me.

"There you are," he says.

"Here I am." I watch him carefully, looking for any sign that he might remember what happened. "We should head down for breakfast."

"Sounds good." He slings an arm around my shoulder and leads me out of the room. "You alright?"

"Never better."

The lie feels oily on my tongue and comes out just as easily. All I can think about is cherries, stifling heat, and the feeling of his hips thrusting against mine.

*

In the soft daylight, the motel looks warmer and more inviting. The diner has the same paneled walls as the rooms, decorated with photos of local heroes who have stayed at the motel. A few other motel guests sit around, filling the room with chatter.

We settle into an uncomfortable plastic booth along a wall of large windows. Still shaken from this morning, I can't find anything to say. The words are locked behind my teeth.

He doesn't look like he remembers what happened, which is good. Because it's not like it meant anything. I'm overreacting.

A waitress with familiar gray hair and brisk demeanor walks over to us. Greta holds a small notebook and an apron folded over her smart clothes. Milo greets her with a smile and a quick hug that she looks charmed by.

"You also run the diner?" I say when he sits back down.

"Family businesses, you know how they are. Everyone does everything." She waves a hand dismissively. "Tell me, are you boys staying with us long?"

Milo explains everything that happened with the pickup, taking over the conversation easily. He's always been better at social interactions than me, knowing exactly what to say to smooth a situation over or offer a kind word. One of our friends, Spencer, says it's because Milo's not afraid to be open and vulnerable. When he's not bickering with Luke like a kid at playground, Spencer can be insightful.

But it's easy to be open when you've got nothing to hide—I've lost a lot by letting my guard down.

Something kicks my leg. Pushing the thoughts away, I slip back into the conversation, ignoring Milo's lingering gaze and the unspoken question in it. Yes, I'm fine. No, I don't want to talk about it.

"I can get an in-house mechanic to look at the truck for you," Greta's saying.

"Really?" I sit up straighter. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Nonsense, that's what he's there for. It's my eldest son, Dale, and he needs something to work on before he gets bored of us."

After giving us the details of Dale's garage, just a few minutes ahead of the Lakeview , Greta takes our orders and hurries off to the kitchen.

I pluck at the hem of my tee shirt, clearing my throat. But the words I want to say won't come.

Milo leans forward, elbows resting on the smooth white table. "You're thinking about something."

I shrug and slip a leg between his outstretched ones, immediately soothed when he tangles us together. The weight is comforting.

"Wasn't it weird? Sharing a bed, I mean." Having your boner against my ass.

"Do you want it to be weird?"

I make a face. "What? No, obviously not."

"Then it wasn't weird. Plus, if this Dale guy can get the truck up and running it won't happen again."

In other words, forget about it. "Yeah, I guess."

"I'll miss your snoring, though."

"Shut up. I don't snore."

"Like a foghorn, baby."

The pet name warms my cheeks, and I kick his leg viciously, laughing at the affronted look on his face when he leans down to rub his shin.

Before we can say anything else, Greta hurries over and sets two plates down in front of us. Pancakes for Milo, eggs and tater tots for me. When she's gone, I pick up one of the potato squares and flick it at Milo's head. He catches it easily, popping it into his mouth. Damn him and his athleticism.

"Mm, delicious."

I stick my tongue out at him. "Asshole."

We sit there grinning at each other like idiots, the tension from earlier dissipated and leaving me feeling giddy. Maybe this day won't be so bad after all.

*

Dale is a tall man with a bushy mustache and a stern-looking face, but he greets us warmly and agrees to check out the truck right there on the side of the quiet, local road.

"That'll be a few days' work," he says when we're back inside his blessedly cool garage. "Something's wrong with the fuel pump. I can order the necessary parts, but it'll be a three-day job."

I cross my arms stiffly, panic sparking in my chest. "This is going to take three days?"

"At most." Dale wipes his glistening forehead with the back of his hand. "If you boys need an extension, I'm sure Mom's willing to let you stay in the same room for a discount."

How fucking lovely.

Milo has to drag me back to the motel. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach. I've already missed a day at home—Mom will go ballistic if I miss half of spring break. But what other choice do I have?

We split the pay for three more days at the motel, the sting of the wound only slightly soothed by how apologetic Greta is about the situation.

I consider asking her for an extra bed, but Milo gives me a look like I'm being a diva and I clamp my mouth shut. It's more cost-effective this way, right?

A whole three days spent with my best friend in this tiny motel, stuck in one room with nowhere else to go.

Nothing could go wrong.