Page 41 of Canned & Coated

I think we drift off like that. There’s no real transition. There’s no pillow talk. No need for it. The air feels full enough already.

Rain taps steadily against the nylon overhead, a soft, constant rhythm that pulls the world inward until it’s only the tent and our little cocoon breathing in sync. Three bodies giving in all at once.

At some point, Milo shifts like he’s about to roll away, but Tanner’s hand finds him without looking, pulling him back in. I tuck closer without thinking, settling into the space that opens.

I shift slightly, pressing closer without thinking, and neither of them moves away. If anything, they adjust around me, like it’s instinct now. Like this is something we’ve practiced without realizing it.

For a long time, I thought wanting something meant losing it. That the moment I reached for it, it would disappear or fall apart or prove itself to be something I’d imagined wrong.

But this… This is real. Messy. Complicated. Hard-earned in ways I don’t think any of us could’ve predicted.

11

I’m not built for mornings, but this one meets me with nothing but peace.

My eyes sting in the pale morning light, and I stand there for a second, shivering, half convinced last night was some kind of group fever dream conjured by bad food and altitude.

I’m almost ready to believe it.

Until I catch sight of the scorched pot by the dead fire. The one Tanner swore he’d clean before bed.

A crusted-over ring of leftover beans clings to the sides, and someone has drawn an epic frowny face in the congealed beans along the rim. The spoon lies abandoned, handle charred.

It’s disgusting, but it’s also a perfect metaphor for the last few years: started with the best intentions, got ignored the second things got weird, left out for everyone to see, and now we’re all stuck dealing with it.

I glance back at the tent I escaped. There’s a vague, tangled shape inside that’s probably Milo considering how loud he’s snoring, mouth open, hair smashed to one side.

On the other side of the sleeping bag is Tanner, stretched out on his back, perfectly still.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was dead.

While I realize that we are absolutely going to get mauled by a bear if we don’t clean up soon, I decide some messes are best handled with an empty bladder, clean body, and a clear head so I head for the bathhouse. My feet are numb against the pine needles and gravel.

Inside the bathhouse, the cinderblock walls sweat with condensation, several stalls already running with early-morning occupants.

Long gone are the highly charged moments from a few nights ago.

God… was it only a few nights ago?

Time does something strange up here. Stretches. Folds in on itself. Makes everything feel both immediate and distant.

I pick an open stall and step inside, pausing for a second to appreciate the privacy. I let my mind drift back over last night, skimming the surface, carefully avoiding the parts that feel a little too sharp to touch directly.

Cleaning up is a wild experience, especially considering the crust I have to scrub away. There are faint, stubborn traces of beans clinging to the tile.

I stand under the spray longer than I’d like to admit, working at it with way more focus than this situation deserves, watching the water swirl everything toward the drain in slow, reluctant spirals.

It’s equal parts satisfying and deeply humiliating. Because this is where we’re at now. Beans. On a public shower floor.

Who even am I? What happened to the guy who kept everything locked down so tight nothing could slip through? Afraid to take. Afraid to want. Afraid to even admit that wanting was happening in the first place.

Where did he go?

I scrub harder than I need to, watching the water carry everything away in cloudy streaks, and I can’t even say I’m upset about it. That careful and controlled version of me who was constantly negotiating with himself about what was acceptable and what wasn’t felt safe and easy to manage.

He also felt… small.

I can’t ignore the fact that it only took a few days around Tanner for all of that to crack open. Not gently, either. I’m split right down the middle. I figure it was probably always one honest confession away from happening.