Page 28 of Canned & Coated

The tent zipper rasps open.

“Well,” comes Tanner’s voice from the entrance. “Quite the show.”

I don’t turn right away. I focus on pulling my shorts up, yanking them into place harder than necessary. “It’s called getting dressed.”

“Shame,” he replies, the tent flap falling shut behind him.

Rain pounds overhead, but I still catch every movement. The shift of his weight, the quiet brush of fabric as he lingers.

The space feels smaller with him in it.

When I do turn, he’s there. His gaze drops to my bare chest, lingers, then drags back up to my face with unhurried intent.

My throat tightens when I swallow. “Milo’s waiting in the car.”

Tanner nods, that smile deepening at the corners.

I fumble for my shirt, nearly turning it inside out in my rush, desperate to put anything between his gaze and my skin.

Once I’m dressed, we stand there, rain hammering overhead, filling the silence neither of us seems willing to break.

“I spent years being the one who leaves,” he says, inching further into the tent. “Not anymore. If you think you can outrun whatever this is… you can’t.”

“I’m not running,” I insist, but the laugh that slips out gives me away.

“You are.” His tone is steady. Certain. “And you can try, Nate. Just know I’m right behind you.”

Then he’s gone, ducking through the tent flap and sprinting toward the car.

I stay rooted where I am, heart hammering, suddenly unsure if I want to get away from him… or give in and let him catch me.

The only place to buy supplies within twenty miles of our campsite is Mitchell’s General Store. It’s a weathered wooden structure that looks like it was built by someone who’d seen exactly one horror movie and thought, “Yes, that’s the architectural vibe I’m going for.”

Inside, fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, casting a sickly glow across yellowed metal shelves that sag at the center. The floorboards creak beneath your boots, each step striking a different note in a warped melody that sounds suspiciously like a warning.

Outside, a hand-painted mural commemorates 65 YEARS SERVING THE MOUNTAIN.” The faded acrylic artwork depicts the Blue Ridge’s misty peaks at dawn and, inexplicably, a slightly cross-eyed Bigfoot giving a thumbs-up.

Turns out the Mitchells themselves defy the murder-cabin aesthetic, greeting customers with homemade fudge samples and genuine questions about your day that somehow never feel intrusive, even when they’re clearly trying to figure out if you’re “from around here.”

The couple have given us space to browse, though Mrs. Mitchell did swing by to welcome “Turner and his friends” back to the mountain.

Now I’m hiding in the canned goods aisle, pretending to compare nutrition labels while actually tracking movement.

Every time I glance up, I catch Tanner’s eyes slipping away over the shelves. We’re both locked in this ridiculous routine of fake shopping. Pick something up, inspect it like it matters, set it back down with care.

Meanwhile, Milo’s actually reading labels, scanning ingredients, quietly building a meal out of whatever these shelves can offer.

I grab a can of refried beans and turn it over in my hands, not taking in a single word.

“You always this focused when you shop?” Tanner calls from the other side of the aisle.

I don’t look up. “Yeah. Big fan of sodium content.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Some things never change.” Then he’s suddenly beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “Still terrible at hiding what you want.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” I say.

“Keep telling yourself that.”