Page 18 of Canned & Coated

“That makes one of us.”

“No, babe,” he says with a grin. “I’m having a blast.”

Then he raises his voice again. “Tanner, blink twice if you’re planning to kiss him at the summit so I can emotionally prepare.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

But I’m smiling when I say it, and Milo notices. He always notices.

“That’s better,” he says quietly, nudging me again. “There he is.”

When we finally reach the top, I wedge myself between them and stare out at the view. Green on green on green. Sky stretched forever. The Blue Ridge Mountains rolling away in layers, like waves that decided to stay still.

Milo’s arm slips around my waist, and I lean into him without thinking. Then I realize how close we all are up here, shoulders nearly touching, and Tanner’s pinky brushes the back of my hand.

My entire arm breaks out in goosebumps.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe any deeper than necessary. I let the moment sit there and pretend my nervous system isn’t lighting flares.

I take in the world around me. The stupidly perfect view that’s probably printed on postcards in every gas station for fifty miles.

Somewhere in all that open space, something in my chest unclenches. Maybe the universe isn’t actively trying to ruin me for once.

Wedged between them like this, Milo’s steady warmth on my left and Tanner’s electricity on my right, I feel something dangerously close to peace. One on each side, holding me in place when I should probably be unraveling.

The moment is so beautiful, so terrifying, I almost can’t breathe.

It could be this easy, I think.

Anything could.

5

There’s something about chopping vegetables and arguing over whether beans need more salt that smooths the sharp edges off everything.

The sun is dipping low enough to soften the trees into silhouettes, and the fire’s steady now, crackling with a kind of contentment that makes me think it knows something I don’t.

I lose myself in the rhythm. Slice, scrape, drop. Carrots into the cast iron pot hanging over the flames. My hands take over while my brain finally shuts up for a minute.

For three guys with smartphones and subscriptions to every streaming service known to mankind, we’ve chosen the most outdated, pioneer-ass way to make dinner. But watching the fire lick the bottom of that blackened pot makes freeze-dried meals feel like surrender.

It adds to the fun, I guess.

Maybe everything tastes better when you’re pretending to be someone else.

I’m halfway through the carrots when Milo appears over my shoulder, so quiet I nearly stab myself. He has a gift for materializing at the exact second you think you’re alone.

He makes a low, thoughtful sound as he watches me chop. “You always cut like that?”

I pause mid-slice. “Like what?”

“Like you’re worried you’ll hurt its feelings,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got a gentle touch, babe.”

I try to shrug it off, but I can feel my neck heating up. “I don’t want carrot shrapnel in the beans. It’s called precision.”

“Sure,” he says. “Precision. Not overthinking.”

Milo swings one leg over the bench and drops down beside me, all casual like he’s not about to ruin my day.