Chapter Three: They Call Us What?

18+ | MM | Gay Sci-Fi Romance | First Contact, Alien Commander, Human Doctor, Human-Alien Heat, Public Obsession, and Dangerous Attention

Blitz found the name on a screen the humans insisted was secure.

The screen covered much of one wall of the conference room, thin as a sheet of light and busy enough to make Vanguard want to turn it off with a weapon. Human news panels moved across it in blocks and banners. Government officials spoke without answering questions. Medical experts guessed at wounds they had not treated. Military analysts pointed at slowed-down footage of Vanguard Five crossing the smoke above Megalopolis General as if the correct hand gesture could explain alien war.

Then the public feeds appeared.

Someone had clipped Blitz carrying two children through a hole in the collapsed hospital wing, one child under each arm, both of them coughing, one of them holding onto his shoulder with the fierce, sticky grip of the recently terrified.

The caption across the bottom read:

STAR BUCK SAVES KIDS, LOOKS ILLEGALLY GOOD DOING IT

Blitz went very still.

Then he leaned closer.

“What is a Star Buck?”

No one answered fast enough.

Ignis looked over from the far side of the room, where he had been pretending not to admire his own rescue footage. “Is that you?”

“It is all of us,” Pulse said, his voice careful.

Aegis stood behind him with one hand resting lightly at the back of Pulse’s neck. The touch was not restraint. It was grounding. Pulse had been absorbing human information for six hours, and every hour had made him quieter.

Vanguard stood at the end of the conference table with his arms folded across his chest. The pearl-gray suit had repaired most of the damage from the hospital rescue, though darker graphite seams still ran along his shoulders and hips where the armor had reinforced itself during the fight. His lower shield had returned to smooth readiness, neither battle-hardened nor relaxed. Controlled. Like everything else about him.

Except Elias Rowan had learned better.

Elias sat two chairs away, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a medical tablet in his hand and a look on his face that said he had been awake too long to pretend diplomacy interested him.

“It’s a nickname,” Elias said.

Blitz turned toward him. “For what?”

“For you.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?”

Elias looked at the screen, then back at Blitz. “That depends which part of the internet you’re asking.”

Vanguard did not like the sound of that. “Explain.”

Elias sighed. “Star because you came from the stars. Buck because humans use it for a male animal, sometimes an attractive man, sometimes money, and apparently now five alien warriors who saved half a hospital.”

Ignis’s mouth curved. “Attractive warrior is acceptable.”

“It is not a tactical designation,” Vanguard said.

“No,” Elias said. “It’s worse. It’s catchy.”

On the wall, another video loaded. This one showed Ignis standing in a ruined intersection with one arm raised, heat rolling from his palm in gold-white waves as burning debris collapsed away from a trapped ambulance. Someone had slowed the footage until every movement looked deliberate and obscene.

The caption read:

THE FIRE ONE IS WELCOME TO RUIN MY LIFE

Ignis read it twice.

Then he looked at Elias. “Is this praise?”

“In that corner of the internet, yes.”

“Good.”

Vanguard turned away from the screen. “Turn it off.”

Blitz moved faster than the human technician standing near the door could blink. He was in front of the screen, hands raised, not touching anything. “No. Leave it.”

“Blitz.”

“They named us before officials did.” Blitz looked fascinated, almost delighted. “That has meaning.”

“It has no meaning.”

“It has enormous meaning,” Elias said without looking up from his tablet. “Humans name what they can’t stop looking at.”

Vanguard’s gaze cut to him.

Elias met it.

Neither of them spoke for two seconds too long.

Pulse looked between them, and his expression changed by the smallest fraction. Aegis noticed. Blitz noticed. Ignis noticed because Ignis noticed anything that smelled like heat.

Vanguard did not move.

Elias smiled faintly, as if he knew exactly what the others had seen and did not care.

A human official at the far side of the table cleared her throat. Deputy Secretary Maren Wells had the controlled exhaustion of someone trying to become the first person in history to draft a first-contact policy while the aliens were already trending. Her hair had been pinned neatly at some point that morning. Several dark strands had escaped.

“Commander Vanguard,” she said, “we understand this is not ideal.”

“You do not.”

“No,” she admitted. “Probably not. But the footage is out. Every civilian near the hospital recorded something. News helicopters captured more. Emergency drones captured more than that. We can reduce misinformation, but we cannot erase public awareness.”

“Public awareness is not my concern,” Vanguard said. “Skrath awareness is.”

That quieted the room.

Even the human officials had learned the word by now.

Skrath.

They did not understand the history beneath it. Not yet. They could not know what that name had done to Valon’s sky, its nurseries, its fields, its open cities. They knew only the first shape of the threat: something had attacked Earth, and the five Valonian warriors who stopped it had not arrived by accident.

Pulse lifted his head. “Public awareness may become Skrath awareness.”

Vanguard looked at him.

Pulse touched the lower edge of the screen with two fingers. The display shifted. Human feeds collapsed into columns of text, search patterns, comments, message boards, dark channels, data flow.

The human technician stared. “How did you do that?”

Pulse did not answer. His eyes moved too quickly. “Most responses are emotional. Sexual. Fear-based. Worshipful. Suspicious. Comedic.” He paused. “Several are precise.”

“How precise?” Vanguard asked.

Pulse expanded one thread.

Aegis’s hand tightened at the back of his neck.

Elias leaned forward.

The comments were ugly in their focus. Not ordinary lust. Not panic. Not conspiracy. Questions about anatomical shielding. Reproductive classifications. Whether the gray lower panels indicated rank. Whether the bronze one was a commander or a shield unit. Whether the healer could detect internal trauma through walls. Whether Valonian male structure implied seed-bearing vulnerability. Whether the ship had more than five.

Vanguard’s expression did not change.

That was how Elias knew it mattered.

Blitz lost his humor first. “Humans do not know those words.”

“No,” Pulse said. “They are using human language, but the structure underneath is not human curiosity.”

Deputy Secretary Wells looked pale. “Are you saying the Skrath are online?”

Ignis glanced at Elias. “Your world connected itself in a net and then wonders when something crawls through it.”

Elias pointed one finger at him. “Not wrong. Deeply annoying, but not wrong.”

Vanguard studied the screen. “Preserve it. Do not open the full pattern here.”

Pulse nodded. “Agreed.”

“The hive lost its unit under the hospital,” Aegis said. His voice was low and steady. “It may have transmitted before termination.”

“It did,” Vanguard said.

Everyone looked at him.

He did not look at Elias. “The unit recognized us.”

Blitz’s face sharpened. “Recognized us how?”

“It said, ‘Valon shield.’”

The words sat in the room like a weapon laid on the table.

Pulse closed his eyes.

Aegis shifted closer to him.

Ignis stopped smiling.

Blitz turned away from the screen.

Elias had heard the phrase before, in the damaged consultation room, after Vanguard’s suit had sealed itself and the world had come back through the door. He had seen what it did to Vanguard then. He saw it again now, though no one else in the room would have called it pain.

Vanguard did not flinch.

That was his tell.

Deputy Secretary Wells spoke carefully. “What does that mean?”

“It means the Skrath did not see us as unknown combatants,” Vanguard said. “They recognized our function.”

“Your function as soldiers?”

“As an advance shield.”

“Advance for what?”

Vanguard looked at the human woman. “For Valon.”

The room went quiet again.

On the screen, a frozen image of Vanguard stood in smoke outside Megalopolis General, body turned half toward the ruined hospital, half toward the sky. Someone had added glowing text beneath him.

COMMANDER OF THE STAR BUCKS IS TOO HOT TO BE REAL

Elias should not have laughed.

He did anyway.

Not loudly. Not kindly either. It escaped him before he could stop it, sharp and exhausted and badly timed.

Vanguard turned his head.

Elias lowered the tablet. “Sorry.”

“You are not.”

“No.”

Blitz’s grin returned slowly. “Commander of the Star Bucks.”

“Do not repeat that,” Vanguard said.

Ignis folded his arms. “It has command presence.”

“It has nothing.”

“It has rhythm.”

“It has public support,” Blitz said. “Earth likes us.”

“Earth desires us,” Pulse said, and looked faintly pained. “The distinction is not clear here.”

Elias stood. “It isn’t always clear to us either.”

Deputy Secretary Wells took a breath as if she had decided to step onto unstable ground because there was no stable ground left. “Commander, whether you like the name or not, public reaction may help us. People are scared. The fact that they are turning you into—” She glanced at the screen and visibly chose not to read the caption. “Into heroes may reduce panic.”

“We are not here to be heroes.”

“No,” Elias said. “You’re here because that thing under the hospital is only the first one Earth has seen.”

Vanguard’s attention returned to him.

Elias held his gaze.

For a moment, the conference room disappeared around them.

Vanguard saw the consultation room again. Cracked window. Privacy screen. Elias between his knees. Elias’s hands on his body. Elias’s voice rough and steady, telling him he did not have to command that room.

Then the door behind Elias opened and a young military aide stepped in carrying another stack of devices no one needed.

The moment broke.

Vanguard turned back to Pulse. “Preserve the precise queries for later analysis. Separate ordinary human response from directed classification.”

Pulse nodded.

“Aegis, assist him.”

“I am.”

“Ignis, you and Blitz review the public footage for tactical exposure. Identify what the humans have seen that the Skrath can use.”

Ignis’s eyes went back to the screen. “We must review all footage?”

“All of it.”

“There may be a lot,” Blitz said, already smiling again.

Vanguard looked at him.

Blitz lifted both hands. “For tactical reasons.”

Elias muttered, “Sure.”

Vanguard heard him.

He heard too much from Elias now. Not through the translation lattice. Not through command perception. Through memory. Through skin. Through the small shift in Elias’s breathing when he was amused and pretending not to be.

That was inconvenient.

No.

That was dangerous.

Deputy Secretary Wells gathered her notes. “Commander, I’ll need you available for a joint briefing in two hours.”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“I am not speaking to your world until I understand what the Skrath have already learned from it.”

“We need to control the narrative.”

Vanguard stared at her.

Elias almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

“The narrative,” Vanguard said, “will not kill your planet.”

Wells lifted her chin. “Panic might.”

That was better.

Vanguard respected better.

He considered her again. “Two hours. No live questions.”

“Recorded statement?”

“Pulse will review it first.”

“Human officials will review it too.”

“Elias will review it.”

Elias looked up. “I will?”

“You speak both command and human stupidity.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

“It was not praise.”

“Yes, it was.”

Vanguard looked away first.

Blitz made a small sound that could have meant anything and absolutely meant something.

The meeting broke badly after that, because humans did not end meetings so much as let them decay. Officials gathered tablets. Technicians whispered. Security personnel pretended not to watch the aliens. Ignis kept scrolling through public footage until he found another clip of himself and tilted his head in appreciation.

On the screen, a firefighter stepped into the frame behind him, face streaked with soot, shoulders broad under a torn turnout coat. The man said something to Ignis. Ignis, on the footage, turned with visible annoyance.

The caption read:

FIRE BOY GETS YELLED AT BY ACTUAL FIREMAN

Ignis leaned closer.

Elias recognized the firefighter. Mateo Alvarez. Shoulder wound, smoke inhalation, stubborn as hell, tried to walk out before his blood pressure remembered gravity.

“He survived,” Ignis said.

Elias followed his gaze. “Mateo? Yes. Discharged himself against medical advice, which means he’s either fine or a firefighter.”

Ignis watched the video loop. Mateo pointed at something off-screen. Ignis ignored him. Mateo grabbed Ignis by the arm and physically turned him toward a trapped ambulance. Ignis’s expression on the footage was priceless: offended, intrigued, and almost obedient.

Blitz appeared beside him, grinning. “He touched you.”

“He was directing my attention.”

“He pulled your arm.”

“He was wrong to do so.”

“You turned.”

“There was an ambulance.”

“You liked it.”

Ignis’s eyes did not leave the screen. “He was loud.”

Elias walked past him toward the door. “He still is.”

Ignis looked at him. “Where is he?”

“No.”

“I did not ask you for permission.”

“Good, because I’m not giving it.”

Ignis turned fully now, copper-dark hair catching the room’s pale overhead light. “Is he injured?”

“He is recovering.”

“Then he is vulnerable.”

“He is annoying, not vulnerable.”

Ignis seemed to file that away as a useful distinction.

Vanguard moved toward Elias before Elias reached the corridor. “You are leaving.”

“I have patients.”

“You were assigned to our observation team.”

“I’m a doctor. My job is not to sit in a room while aliens discover thirst posts.”

“Thirst?”

“Ask Blitz.”

“I already regret learning your language.”

Elias stepped into the corridor.

Vanguard followed.

The secure medical wing had once been part of a private research hospital attached to Megalopolis General. Now it had soldiers at every entrance, government personnel in borrowed offices, alien equipment in surgical rooms, and five Valonian warriors living in quarters that had been designed for visiting cardiology fellows.

The hallway smelled like disinfectant, warm wiring, and people trying not to panic.

Elias liked it better than the conference room.

“Your blood pressure is elevated,” Vanguard said.

Elias glanced at him. “You scanning me?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You walk like a man preparing to strike someone.”

“That’s just how doctors walk after thirty hours awake.”

“You should rest.”

Elias stopped so abruptly Vanguard almost stepped into him.

Elias turned. “You don’t get to say that to me.”

Vanguard looked down at him, expression unreadable.

Elias lowered his voice. “Not after delaying treatment because a kid needed Pulse more. Not after standing through a strategy meeting with a healing wound and pretending you didn’t feel it. Not after telling everyone else what to do while you look like you haven’t slept since entering the system.”

“I do not require—”

“If the next word is sleep, I’m going to make this medical.”

Vanguard’s mouth closed.

Elias smiled without warmth. “Good choice.”

A pair of soldiers passed them, trying so hard not to stare that they both stared.

Vanguard waited until they were gone. “You challenge me in front of your officials.”

“I challenge you wherever you’re wrong.”

“You assume you know when I am wrong.”

“I’m usually right.”

“That is not mathematically likely.”

“You’ve known me for two days.”

“Long enough.”

Elias looked at him then, really looked, and the argument thinned into something else.

Vanguard had washed. The smoke was gone from his hair. The blood had been cleaned from his forehead, though a faint line remained near his temple where Elias had pressed gauze to alien skin and pretended his hand was steady for medical reasons only. The suit had repaired itself. Vanguard looked impossible again.

Not untouched.

That was the problem.

Elias had touched him.

He knew what Vanguard sounded like when he stopped holding back. He knew the weight of the seed-glands settling heavy in his palm, and the deep vibration that moved through Vanguard when Elias took him into his mouth. He knew the sharp, startled break in Vanguard’s breath when Elias showed him something Valon had never taught his body to expect.

Now Vanguard stood in a government hallway under bad lights, being converted into a headline by a planet that did not know what it had invited into its bloodstream.

Elias hated how much he wanted to touch him again.

Vanguard’s gaze dropped to Elias’s mouth.

So that was mutual.

A door opened down the hall. Deputy Secretary Wells stepped out with two aides and a military officer.

Elias stepped back first.

Vanguard’s expression returned to command so quickly Elias almost laughed.

Almost.

Wells approached. “Dr. Rowan, I’m glad I caught you. We need medical clearance language for the commander’s statement. Nothing too detailed, but enough to reassure the public that contact has not exposed civilians to unknown biological risk.”

Elias stared at her.

She winced. “I know. We don’t know that yet.”

“No,” Elias said. “We absolutely do not.”

“Then say what we do know.”

“What we know is this,” Elias said. “The Skrath were already here. They hit the hospital district first. Vanguard Five stopped the attack before it spread through the city. That does not mean Earth is safe.”

Wells nodded. “Can you write that in a way that doesn’t make everyone scream?”

“No.”

“Can you try?”

Vanguard said, “He can.”

Elias looked at him. “Careful.”

Wells looked between them again, and this time she was smart enough not to comment. “Medical review room three is empty. Use it. I need a draft in thirty minutes.”

“I’m not your press office.”

“No. You’re the only doctor who has treated both humans and Valonians after the attack.”

Elias hated when people were right.

He took the tablet she offered. “Thirty minutes.”

Wells nodded and walked away.

Vanguard remained beside him.

Elias pointed the tablet toward room three. “You coming?”

“You asked me to.”

“I did not.”

“You looked at me.”

“That’s not a request.”

“For Valonians, it can be.”

Elias opened the door. “You’re making that up.”

“No.”

Elias stepped inside. “You’re learning fast.”

The room was small, windowless, and designed for physicians to review scans while eating food they had no time to taste. There was a wall screen, a counter, four chairs, a sink, and one examination table left behind from whatever department had used the space before first contact turned it into a diplomatic pressure cooker.

Elias shut the door.

Vanguard watched him do it.

The click of the lock was soft.

Too soft for the way Vanguard’s attention changed.

Elias set the tablet on the counter. “We have thirty minutes.”

“Yes.”

“To draft public medical language.”

“Yes.”

Neither of them moved.

Elias rubbed both hands over his face. “This is stupid.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Vanguard came closer, slow enough that Elias could have stopped him with one word. “I have questions.”

“About the statement?”

“No.”

Elias lowered his hands.

Vanguard stood close now, not touching him. “About what you showed me.”

Elias’s pulse kicked once, hard. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“You know which part.”

“I know several parts.”

Vanguard’s eyes darkened. Not in color. In focus. “The part your body allowed me to understand only from one side.”

Elias exhaled through his nose. “That’s one way to say it.”

“Would you show me the other?”

Elias looked at the door.

Vanguard noticed. “Not here?”

“Here is not the problem.”

“What is?”

“You are asking to learn. I need to know if you’re also asking to do.”

“I am asking both.”

Direct.

Of course he was.

Elias leaned back against the counter, arms crossed because otherwise his hands were going to make decisions. “Why?”

Vanguard’s brow tightened slightly. “You gave me something unfamiliar. You held control and did not use it to diminish me.”

“No.”

“I want to understand how to hold that control from the other side.”

“That sounds dangerously close to making sex a training exercise.”

“It is not sex?”

“It is very much sex.”

“Then teach me correctly.”

Elias stared at him.

Vanguard did not look amused. He looked serious, intent, and more uncertain than he probably meant to show.

That undid Elias more than the command voice ever could have.

He pushed away from the counter. “You don’t command this.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Vanguard took that in. “I am trying to know.”

Elias stepped closer. “Topping isn’t just putting your body where mine was.”

“I assumed it was not.”

“It’s not conquest.”

“I do not want conquest.”

“It’s not proving you’re still in charge because I made you lose your mind on a table.”

Vanguard’s mouth tightened.

There.

That landed.

Elias softened his voice by half. “You did lose your mind a little.”

“Yes.”

“And you survived.”

“Yes.”

“So you wanted to know what it feels like when someone trusts you that much.”

Vanguard was quiet for a moment. “I wanted to know why I trusted you enough to give it to you.”

Elias held his gaze. “Then ask me.”

Vanguard said nothing.

Elias reached for his waist, fingers finding the smooth seam where the suit met itself like living fabric.

“Humans use words.”

Vanguard’s gaze dropped to Elias’s hands. “Then use them.”

Elias looked up at him. “Yes. I’ll show you.”

Vanguard’s breath changed.

“But we go slowly,” Elias said.

“Yes.”

“And if I tell you to stop, you stop.”

“At once.”

“If I tell you to change something, you change it.”

“Yes.”

“If you start turning this into a command exercise, I will laugh at you.”

Vanguard blinked once. “That seems unnecessary.”

“It will be deeply necessary.”

Then Elias kissed him.

Vanguard still learned kissing like battle at first: total attention, fast adaptation, too much intensity too quickly. Elias let him have the first hungry press of mouths, the first grip at his hip, the first low sound that rolled through Vanguard’s chest and into Elias’s ribs.

Then Elias pulled back.

Vanguard followed.

Elias put a hand on his chest. “Slow.”

Vanguard stopped.

Good.

“Again,” Elias said. “But don’t take my mouth. Meet it.”

Vanguard studied him for one impossible second, then bent and kissed him again.

Better.

Still strong. Still Vanguard. But not claiming. Not forcing rhythm into obedience. Elias felt the difference immediately and rewarded it by opening under him, letting the kiss deepen, letting Vanguard’s tongue learn what pressure earned a sound and what pressure only proved he had strength.

Vanguard learned fast.

Annoyingly fast.

Elias broke the kiss long enough to breathe. “You are not supposed to be good at everything.”

“I am not good yet.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“That is not the same.”

“No. But it’s enough to keep going.”

Vanguard’s hand settled at Elias’s jaw, thumb rough against stubble. “You guide even when yielding.”

“Yes.”

“That is difficult.”

“For you, maybe.”

“For both of us.”

Elias laughed once, quiet and real. “Fair.”

He pulled his jacket off and his scrub top over his head and tossed it onto the nearest chair. Vanguard watched the movement with the same focused hunger he gave tactical maps, which should have been ridiculous and somehow was not.

Elias reached for the waistband of his scrub pants.

Vanguard caught his wrist.

Elias froze.

Vanguard released him immediately. “I wanted to ask.”

“You can.”

“May I?”

The question moved through Elias harder than it should have.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Vanguard’s hands came to his waist. Large hands. Careful hands. They moved as if Elias were both fragile and dangerous, which was closer to correct than Elias wanted to admit. Vanguard pushed the fabric down slowly, watching Elias’s face more than the body he uncovered.

“Look at what you’re doing,” Elias said.

“I am.”

“At me?”

“Yes.”

Elias caught his chin and turned it down. “At my body too. I’ll tell you if you miss something important.”

Vanguard’s mouth almost curved. “You will tell me if I miss anything.”

“Now you’re learning.”

The scrub pants hit the floor.

Vanguard looked.

Elias was hard, because of course he was. Because the world was ending in installments and his body had apparently decided this was a reasonable place to put its priorities. Vanguard’s gaze moved over him with open fascination, not worship, not ownership.

Study.

Desire.

Respect.

It made Elias feel more naked than being naked.

Vanguard touched him, palm closing around his cock with a restraint that was almost painful.

Elias hissed.

Vanguard stopped.

“Not stop,” Elias said quickly. “Less careful.”

“You said slowly.”

“I didn’t say barely.”

Vanguard adjusted his grip.

Elias’s eyes closed. “Yes. There.”

Vanguard stroked him once, then again, watching every reaction. “Your body gives instruction.”

“If you pay attention.”

“I am paying attention.”

“I noticed.”

Vanguard stepped closer, and Elias felt the rigid heat of him through the sealed suit. The suit responded to arousal differently now that Elias knew what to look for. The graphite panel had softened, fitting Vanguard’s body without releasing him yet, the shape beneath clear and heavy.

Elias reached for it.

Vanguard let him.

The suit opened in precise layers, silent and intimate. Vanguard’s cock filled Elias’s hand warm and hard, the flexible skin moving under Elias’s fingers with that strange Valonian responsiveness. Beneath him, protected anatomy shifted lower, closer to the surface, not fully descending yet.

Elias looked up. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very sure for someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“I know who I am doing it with.”

That shut Elias up.

Vanguard noticed.

The bastard.

Elias recovered by pulling him into another kiss, harder this time, because words had become inconvenient. Vanguard answered with equal heat, one hand tightening on Elias’s hip, then loosening as if remembering the lesson before Elias had to remind him.

They were still holding each other’s dicks, and that simple intimacy changed the kiss. It wasn’t just mouths and breath anymore. Each movement of their hands fed into it, making the kiss deeper, hotter, harder to break.

Good.

Vanguard broke the kiss first.

Elias barely had time to wonder why before Vanguard lowered himself to his knees.

“What are you—”

Vanguard looked up at him once, calm and entirely certain, then showed him.

Elias’s hand went to Vanguard’s shoulder.

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The Retreat — Chapter 1: Welcome, Settle, Breathe

SUBTITLE

MM | 18+ | From The Retreat, a Story from The Men of Creekside Lodge Series

Creekside Lodge — Lake Arrowhead, California

Welcome to The Retreat at Creekside Lodge. Future Chapters promise No Hookups, Just Yoga… Right? From there, they’ll start Letting It In, make their way through Yoga, Hike, and Dinner with a View, and discover The Energy Between them. By the end of the retreat, maybe a few will find themselves Somewhere, Finally.

Welcome. Settle. Breathe.

That’s Juliano’s job this week: guide fourteen gay men through six days of yoga, hiking, conversation, and whatever else they brought with them to Creekside Lodge.

Juliano knows how to help other people get there.

He’s less certain what happens when it’s his turn.

Sunday — Arrival

Juliano adjusted his mat for the third time, smoothing the edges with a practiced palm. Not because it needed straightening, but because it gave him something to do while the first guests wandered up the gravel path toward the barn. The afternoon sun threw long shadows across Silver Creek, which gurgled happily beyond the deck. The breeze carried hints of sage, pine, and the warm, peppery scent of the wood that lined the barn’s walls.

This was his favorite moment of any retreat—the stillness before the swirl.

Before the insecurities, flirtations, resentments, and awakenings stirred the pot. Before someone cried in pigeon pose or confessed too much over herbal tea. He lived for it. He lived for them.

And yet… he never stayed.

Jake was the first to greet the arriving guests, ever the grounding presence in a crisp white tee and cargo shorts, clipboard in hand. His quiet efficiency paired well with his low-slung sex appeal, something Juliano had learned to register but not respond to. Jake and his husband, Dante, were good men.

And that third thing they had going with Mark?

Very L.A. Very hot. Very none of his business.

“First arrivals,” Jake called up toward the barn. “Trey’s here, and the Palm Springs couple—Eric and Devin, right?”

Juliano nodded, tying back his long dark hair with a flick of his fingers.

“Perfect. Let them get settled. I’ll meet everyone at the fire ring at six.”

He paused, then added with a smirk, “Assuming no one shows up needing emotional triage from the drive.”

Jake just grinned.

By four, the cabins had filled with the assorted cast of what Juliano mentally dubbed the Lake Arrowhead Fourteen.

Couples on the edge of something—growth, collapse, hard to say. Singles doing their best to pretend they weren’t secretly hoping to leave with someone else’s phone number, or more than a phone number. Friends who insisted this was just about self-care but packed matching tank tops just in case.

He watched them arrive from the barn’s balcony, sipping a green juice with spirulina and judgment. He’d do his actual job soon—greeting, holding space, asking the right questions with wide eyes and a soft voice.

But for now, he observed.

Cam and Diego, besties from West Hollywood, arrived loud and laughing, their Jeep rattling with camping gear they absolutely didn’t need.

Felix and Andre came in separate cars, which didn’t bode well for college “roommates.”

Ravi walked softly, like someone who’d lived through something and didn’t want to wake it back up.

Gabe, all intensity and silence, gave Juliano a half-nod as he passed toward his solo cabin, barefoot on the gravel like it didn’t hurt.

And then there were the couples.

Jordan and Khalil—magnetic, mismatched, and already arguing in code.

Trevor and Neil—showing up like they wanted a medal just for still being together.

Oscar and Benji—mid-40s and mid-20s—walked in sync. Oscar held a worn poetry journal. Benji filmed a giddy cabin tour on his phone, narrating with the energy of a YouTube star.

Juliano exhaled and rolled his shoulders.

Let the week begin.

At six sharp, guests filtered into the meadow, where a wide fire ring sat surrounded by polished log benches and soft, folded blankets.

The fire was already crackling—Dante’s doing. He stood nearby with Jake, both looking casually stunning in unbuttoned shirts and fitted shorts. Mark leaned against a nearby tree, sleeves rolled, smirking like he knew every secret before anyone even shared one.

Juliano stood.

Tall, serene, and just the right amount of ethereal.

“Welcome, everyone,” he said, voice calm and low, like wind through pine. “You’ve made it. Whatever it took to get here, I see you. And I’m grateful.”

A few guests gave shy smiles. Others looked away.

“For the next six days,” Juliano continued, “I invite you to let go of expectations. Of your bodies. Of each other. Of yourselves.”

Benji snorted softly.

Juliano’s smile didn’t waver.

“Some of you came here to deepen a bond. Some to find one. Some to be alone with yourself in a way that’s rarely safe. Whatever your why, honor it.”

He let the silence sit for a moment, then gestured toward the fire.

“Tonight, we keep it simple. Share your name, what brought you here, and one thing you’re ready to release.”

They went around the circle slowly. Some with practiced ease. Others halting and raw.

Ravi spoke barely above a whisper.

Gabe said nothing until Juliano locked eyes with him—and even then, he just said, “Noise.”

When it came back to Juliano, he didn’t say much.

“I’m Juliano. I’m your guide, but also your student. I’m here to witness.”

He didn’t say what he was ready to release.

Maybe because he wasn’t ready to.

As the fire turned to embers and goodnights rippled through the group, Oscar stood and extended a hand toward Benji, who bounced to his feet as if he’d been waiting for it.

They walked side by side through the trees, Oscar’s hand resting lightly at the small of Benji’s back. Not possessive, just familiar.

Their cabin sat near the edge of the property, on a gentle slope from the meadow to the creek. Inside, the lights were soft and warm, the fireplace already glowing.

Benji kicked off his sneakers and immediately flopped onto the bed, phone in hand.

“Two hundred likes in the first hour,” he grinned. “That fire circle clip is gonna pop.”

Oscar smiled faintly as he removed his boots. “You filmed that?”

“Not the whole thing,” Benji said. “Just my bit.”

Oscar chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course. You were radiant. But the edit cuts off your last line.”

Benji looked up. “You watched it?”

“Of course I did. I follow you, remember?” Oscar tugged off his socks. “Been following you since that TikTok where you dragged lost gay guys who spend hundreds on looks but won’t spend a dime on therapy.”

Benji laughed. “That was peak pandemic boredom. I was wearing pajama pants.”

“And yet,” Oscar said, leaning back on his hands, “you had presence. Something to say. I remember commenting on the lighting and transitions, and you DMed me to argue.”

“You said my cuts were chaotic.”

“They were. But charming.”

Benji crawled toward him on the bed, the phone forgotten.

“You know, you could’ve just said ‘hey handsome’ like everyone else.”

Oscar pulled him in with a hand behind the neck. “But I didn’t want to be everyone else.”

They kissed slowly, the kind of kiss you lean into after a year of learning how to hold each other’s contradictions.

Oscar slid Benji’s shirt off and brushed his knuckles down his spine.

“I hate that people assume I’m just your sugar daddy.”

Benji grinned against his jaw. “Well… you do pay for most things.”

Oscar sighed, then smiled. “That’s not what I mean.”

Benji quieted. “I know. And I love you for how much you believe in me.”

Oscar paused. “Even when I push you?”

“Especially then.” Benji straddled his lap. “You made me see myself beyond the likes. You said, ‘There’s a story in you, if you stop chasing the algorithm long enough to write it.’”

Oscar cupped his face. “Still true.”

They undressed each other with practiced reverence. This wasn’t the beginning of something. They were already in the middle of it, with all the routines, rough edges, and private language that came from choosing each other again and again.

Their bodies moved in sync, Oscar steady and certain, Benji open and eager.

They made love with the familiarity of people who had already survived awkward mornings, social media envy, and quiet dinners when one was exhausted and the other starved for attention.

Afterward, wrapped in a thick blanket, Benji curled into Oscar’s chest, one hand idly tracing a line down his arm.

“Do you think people here think I’m your sugar baby?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He stroked Benji’s hair and kissed the top of his head.

“I think people see what they want. Let them.”

Benji looked up at him. “But what do you see?”

Oscar held his gaze.

“A life partner. Someone worth the patience.”

Benji exhaled and laid his head back down. “Then I guess we’re both still posting the long game.”

Oscar smiled.

“Good stories always take time.”

Share

Dr. Elias Rowan had blood on his sleeve, dust all over him, and three people shouting his name from three different directions.

That was normal for Megalopolis General after a mass casualty event. The alien ship hovering above the trauma entrance was new.

He had looked up at it once, because everyone had looked up at it once. It hung over the hospital in impossible silence, sleek and dark against a sky still bruised with smoke. No rotors. No jetwash. No familiar logic. A thing that large should have made the windows rattle or the ground shake. Instead, it floated above the broken east wing as if gravity had stepped aside and decided not to argue.

After what he had just seen, Elias did not have time to be impressed.

The firefighter’s blood pressure dipped again.

Elias pressed fresh gauze against the wound in his shoulder while a nurse taped it in place. “Get the firefighter to bay four,” he said. “If his pressure drops again, call me before he crashes, not after.”

The firefighter tried to smile. “You’re always this charming?”

“Only when buildings fall on people.”

A crack ran through the corridor wall behind them.

Elias heard it before anyone else reacted. He held up one hand, and the hallway went still except for the alarms, the coughing, and the sharp squeak of a gurney wheel that should have been fixed six months ago.

The crack stopped moving.

Elias watched the wall another second before lowering his hand. “That won’t hold long.”

The old surgical wing was half collapsed. Not gone. That would have been cleaner. It had folded in stages after the Skrath attack, creating pockets under concrete, glass, old steel, and whatever cheap decisions had been made during the hospital’s last renovation. There were still people inside. Two nurses. One elderly patient. A maintenance worker. At least one child from the pediatric waiting area.

Maybe more.

The alien commander wanted to close the site.

Elias could see him through the torn-open ambulance entrance, alone in the smoke. Vanguard. The name had come from the translator threaded into the alien’s nervous system when the emergency crews shouted questions and he answered in clipped English. Commander of Vanguard Five. The others were already somewhere inside the damage, holding walls, reading bodies, cutting access, doing whatever impossible things they did.

Vanguard stood apart from all of it. Tall, bronze-skinned, dark-haired, and calm in a way Elias did not trust. His pale Valonian suit moved with him like it belonged there, tight across his chest, waist, and thighs. The graphite lower shield at his groin had darkened since the fight in the street, hardened for battle into something protective and practical.

Also distracting, which irritated Elias more than the alien did.

Vanguard was looking at the collapsed wing as if the hospital were not a hospital. As if it were a map.

Elias stripped off one bloody glove, threw it into the trash, and crossed the ambulance bay.

“Commander,” he called.

Vanguard turned.

Up close, he was worse. Not prettier. Elias refused to use pretty for a man who looked like he could order a warship into silence. Vanguard had the kind of body people noticed before they remembered to be afraid, but that was not what made him hard to look away from. It was the stillness. The sense that every part of him had been trained not to waste motion, breath, or expression.

Elias had spent his career around surgeons, soldiers, cops, exhausted parents, and people trying not to die. He knew controlled men. Vanguard was something else.

“You’re moving my rescue crews back,” Elias said.

“I am establishing containment.”

“This is a hospital.”

“There is a surviving Skrath unit beneath the collapsed wing.”

Elias stared at him. “There are surviving humans beneath the collapsed wing.”

“The Skrath unit may still be transmitting.”

“And my patients may still be breathing.”

Vanguard’s eyes did not harden. They were already hard. What changed was the focus behind them. “If it completes transmission, the data could draw a harvest fleet.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means this world, and its population, becomes a food source for the Skrath.”

“This world is already a target.” Elias stepped closer, because being exhausted apparently made him suicidal. “That thing came down in my city, tore through the city and my hospital, and left people under rubble. So until the sky actually opens again, the people under that rubble come first.”

“The V-5 can lift the collapsed section.”

“I’m sure it can,” Elias said. “And if this were an empty building, I’d applaud from a safe distance. But there are people under there, trapped between floors, oxygen lines, steel supports, and whatever that thing left alive beneath them. One clean pull from above might open the wing. It might also crush the last air pockets or tear my patients apart before we ever reach them.”

Vanguard said nothing.

Good. Maybe aliens could learn.

“You want the thing under the hospital?” Elias said. “Fine. Get in line. The living come first.”

Vanguard did not look away from him. “Doctor—”

“Elias.”

A faint pause. “Elias. You are thinking in minutes. I am thinking beyond them.”

“No. I’m thinking in lives.” Elias pointed toward the collapsed wing. “Five confirmed. Maybe more. If we wait for you to finish securing your alien problem, those pulses stop.”

“It is not an alien problem. It is a planetary one.”

“Then save the planet after we pull the children out.”

That landed. Elias saw it, small but real, in the way Vanguard’s jaw set.

Vanguard looked toward the collapsed wing. Smoke slid out of a gap near the ground. Somewhere inside, metal shifted, a deep slow sound that made every human rescue worker turn toward it.

“Aegis, hold the south wall,” Vanguard said. “Ignis, open an access line but do not destabilize the structure. Blitz, prepare extraction through narrow gaps. Pulse, track every living body inside and guide us as we move.”

Then he looked at Elias.

“I go in with you.”

“You don’t know this building.”

“You do.”

“That wasn’t an invitation.”

“It is now.”

Elias almost smiled. Almost. “You are unbelievable.”

“I have been told that.”

“Not as praise.”

“Neither was the first time.”

A flash of movement crossed the ambulance roof. Blitz crouched there in a pale suit with electric-blue trim, grinning like the end of the world had improved his mood. “He learns slowly, but he does learn.”

Vanguard did not turn. “Blitz.”

“Moving.”

The speedster vanished.

Elias grabbed a trauma pack, a flashlight, and a portable monitor from the nearest cart. The nurse beside it opened her mouth, then saw his face and wisely decided not to ask. He checked the flashlight, slung the pack over one shoulder, and pointed toward a gap under the old radiology corridor.

“That way. The pediatric waiting area folded under the surgical wing, but it didn’t pancake. If there’s still air, it’s through that corridor.”

Vanguard nodded once. “Lead.”

Elias stepped into the dust. “Stay behind me.”

Vanguard followed without comment.

That worried Elias more than an argument would have.

The corridor had become what felt like a cave.

Elias crawled through it on his elbows. Dust fell in soft bursts from the cracked ceiling. Tile scraped under his knees. Wires hung like dead vines from the broken panels above. Somewhere deeper in, a child cried once and then went quiet.

Quiet was worse.

Behind him, Vanguard moved with startling control for someone his size. His shoulders brushed concrete. The pearl-gray suit shifted with him, silent except for the occasional faint tightening of hardened panels where the structure pressed too close. The graphite shield at his waist had darkened in battle mode, fitted and protective, not separate from the suit but more pronounced now, like the body understood danger and had answered it.

Elias noticed. Then immediately hated that he had noticed.

“Name?” Vanguard asked behind him.

“Elias Rowan.”

“Your role?”

“Emergency physician.”

“You command the medical response?”

“I triage, treat, and yell when people stand where they’re going to get killed.”

“That is not a definition.”

“It is today.”

A narrow beam shifted above them. Elias froze and listened. The rubble settled but held.

Vanguard said, “You are not afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid.”

“You do not move like it.”

“I’m a doctor. Fear is allowed. Panic is expensive.”

For a moment, Vanguard said nothing. Then his voice softened by a fraction. “That is accurate.”

They reached the first pocket three minutes later.

A nurse named Damon was pinned beneath a fallen supply cabinet, conscious but gray with pain. Beside him, an elderly patient lay half-covered in ceiling panels, oxygen tube still looped under her nose and doing absolutely nothing useful. The air pocket was small, hot, and sour with dust.

Elias slid to Damon first. “Hey. Damon. Look at me.”

The nurse blinked. “Dr. Rowan?”

“Yeah. Bad day.”

Damon gave a weak laugh and immediately regretted it.

“Don’t do that,” Elias said. “Laughing is for people with intact ribs.”

Vanguard moved past him to the older woman. “She breathes.”

“Keep her that way.”

He expected a question. He got obedience. Vanguard knelt, one arm bracing a cracked slab above the patient while Elias checked Damon’s leg. The limb was pinned, probably fractured, not pulseless. Salvageable if they moved fast and the building didn’t decide to finish falling.

A blue-white blur appeared at the edge of the pocket. Blitz folded himself through a space Elias would not have believed could fit a grown man. He stopped beside the patient, all humor gone.

“Two?” he asked.

“Two,” Elias said. “Neck precautions on her. He has rib injuries and a pinned leg.”

Blitz stared at him.

Elias stared back. “Do you understand neck precautions?”

Blitz looked offended. “I understand necks.”

“Not the same thing.”

“Then explain quickly.”

Elias did. Blitz listened, which somehow unsettled Elias more than the hovering alien ship. The fast one moved like trouble, talked like trouble, and then handled the unconscious patient with such exact care that Elias had to revise at least two assumptions before they had the first survivor out.

Vanguard lifted the cabinet while Elias guided Damon’s leg free. Pulse slid into the pocket long enough to stabilize internal bleeding with a green light that made Elias’s medical training file a formal complaint somewhere in the back of his mind. Within minutes, both survivors were moving toward daylight.

Then something struck from below.

The floor jumped. A sound rose through the broken tile, wet and metallic, wrong in a way Elias felt before he understood it. Vanguard turned toward it, and all the almost-human calm drained into something colder.

“The Skrath unit,” he said.

“Still have three civilians,” Elias answered.

“It is closer.”

“Then it can wait closer.”

“Elias—”

“No.” Elias pushed the trauma pack into Vanguard’s chest. “You wanted to come into my building. In my building, the living come first.”

Another impact shook the pocket. Dust fell hard enough to blind them for two breaths. Vanguard caught Elias by the shoulder and pulled him back before a strip of metal frame came down where his head had been. Elias bumped against Vanguard’s chest, one hand grabbing the slick edge of his suit, and for half a second they were too close for a disaster.

Vanguard’s body was warm under the strange material. His breath moved against Elias’s cheek. His voice, when he spoke, was lower than before.

“You are injured?”

“No.” Elias pushed back, pulse kicking for reasons he refused to sort. “Move.”

They moved.

The pediatric pocket was worse.

Two children were trapped near what had been the waiting area. One boy was pinned under the collapsed reception desk, his arm twisted at an angle Elias did not like. A smaller child clung to a young resident named Nia, who was curled sideways against the wall with blood in her hair and one foot trapped under a beam.

Nia saw him and started crying.

Elias did not soften his voice too much. People in disaster listened better when you gave them a tone they could stand on. “Nia. You did good. Keep your hand on his shoulder.”

“I can’t feel my foot.”

“I know. We’ll get to it. Right now you keep him looking at you.”

The pinned boy stared at Elias with wide, shocked eyes. Maybe six. Maybe seven. Too pale. Too still.

Vanguard stopped at the edge of the pocket.

Elias saw the break this time. Not fear. Not hesitation. Recognition, maybe, though he had no idea what children meant to Vanguard or his people. It did not matter. The commander understood small bodies under threat. He understood that much.

“Tell me what to hold,” Vanguard said.

Elias told him.

For the next nine minutes, the world narrowed to hands, breath, and orders. Vanguard lifted what Elias told him to lift, braced what Elias told him to brace, and did not argue once. Pulse arrived and worked beside him, green light sliding under the boy’s skin, easing shock, slowing blood loss, buying time. Outside the pocket, Ignis burned a new access cut through buckled steel with terrifying precision. Aegis held the building from the outside, his shield pressing against the failed wall like a second structure.

The Skrath struck from below again.

The floor split. Nia screamed as the beam shifted over her foot. Vanguard threw one arm across the reception desk and caught the collapse before it crushed the boy. His suit hardened instantly across his shoulders, ribs, and lower shield, graphite deepening under the strain. A piece of tile sliced across his forehead and opened his skin.

Blood ran down his face.

“Pulse,” Vanguard said.

“I can seal it,” Pulse answered.

“The child.”

Pulse hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “Commander—”

“The child.”

Pulse obeyed.

Elias did not have time to admire him for that, so he stored it somewhere and kept working. They freed the boy first. Blitz appeared through the outside cut and took him with more gentleness than his grin had ever promised. The smaller child followed, clinging to Blitz’s neck so hard the speedster looked genuinely alarmed.

“Is this normal?” Blitz asked.

“For rescued children?” Elias said. “Yes.”

Blitz looked down at the child wrapped around him. “It has attached.”

“Take her to triage.”

“I am taking her to triage,” Blitz said, and disappeared with the child still clinging to him.

Nia was last. Pulse stabilized her. Vanguard lifted the beam. Elias guided her leg free, felt blood return where he needed it to return, and let himself breathe for exactly one second.

Then the ceiling groaned.

“Out,” Elias said.

Vanguard stayed braced under the failing desk. “You first.”

“Don’t do the noble alien thing.”

“Out.”

Elias got one hand on the front of Vanguard’s suit and hauled uselessly, because the man might as well have been part of the building. “If you stay and this pocket drops, I lose you, and everyone outside loses whatever war you think you’re supposed to win.”

Vanguard looked down at him.

Elias held his gaze. “You want to be useful, Commander? Survive.”

That landed too.

Vanguard released the desk and shoved Elias through the access cut ahead of him. The pocket collapsed behind them in a roar of dust and broken plaster. Aegis’s shield caught the worst of it from outside, the air flashing teal-white as it took the impact. Elias hit the pavement on one shoulder, rolled, and came up coughing.

Vanguard emerged a heartbeat later, dusty, bleeding, and still too composed.

Elias pointed at the ambulance bumper. “Sit down.”

Vanguard looked at him.

Elias pointed harder. “Sit. Down.”

Blitz appeared beside Ignis, delighted. “Oh, I love Earth.”

Ignis, ember trim still glowing along his arms, folded his arms and watched with open interest.

Vanguard sat.

Not because he had to. Everyone there knew that. He sat because Elias had told him to, and the air between them changed in a way Elias did not have time to examine safely.

He stepped between Vanguard’s knees and pressed gauze to the cut at his temple. Up close, the commander was still too much: blood at his hairline, dust on his cheek, broad chest rising under the pearl-gray suit, eyes fixed on Elias as if a battlefield had learned to focus on one man.

“You knew Pulse could heal this,” Elias said.

“Yes.”

“But you told him to help the child.”

“Yes.”

Elias pressed the gauze a little harder than necessary. “That was almost decent of you.”

“Almost?”

“You still tried to let a monster outrank my patients.”

Vanguard’s jaw tightened. “I tried to prevent a greater loss.”

“And I tried to prevent the loss in front of me.”

Neither of them looked away.

Then the ground beneath the collapsed wing pulsed.

Not shifted. Not cracked.

Pulsed.

Aegis’s shield snapped fully open. Ignis turned toward the rubble, heat flaring in both hands. Pulse lifted his head from triage, face going pale.

“It is awake,” Pulse said.

Vanguard rose so fast Elias had to step back.

The V-5 answered before Vanguard spoke, dropping a controlled column of pale light through the broken wing. Concrete lifted in pieces. Steel bent outward. Dust spiraled up as the ship peeled back enough of the collapse to expose the thing beneath.

That made it worse.

The Skrath unit looked like a broken strip of black shell and wet gray tissue folded around a cracked core. Half its head was gone. Several limbs were crushed. Under its armor, faint lights pulsed in a sequence that made Elias think of a heart monitor failing in a language he could not read.

Vanguard stepped toward it.

Elias caught his arm. “What are you doing?”

“Securing it.”

“It’s under my hospital.”

“It is dying.”

“Then let it.”

“Not before it speaks.”

The Skrath moved.

A broken limb shot toward a firefighter near the barricade. Aegis blocked it. Ignis burned it off. Blitz had the firefighter twenty feet away before the severed limb hit the pavement.

Vanguard did not flinch. He crouched in front of the containment field and looked into what remained of the creature’s face.

The sounds that came out of it were not words at first. Wet clicks. Static. A hiss like air leaving a punctured lung. Pulse moved behind Vanguard, one hand pressed to his own throat as if the translation hurt.

“It knows us,” Pulse said.

Every Valonian changed.

Elias felt it, though he had no name for the shift. Blitz stopped moving. Ignis’s heat brightened. Aegis’s shield thickened until the air hummed around it. Vanguard went so still he looked carved out of the same terrible silence as the ship above them.

The Skrath’s broken head turned toward Aegis first. Then Pulse. Then Ignis and Blitz.

Finally, Vanguard.

“Valon,” it hissed.

Pulse’s face went white.

The creature’s body failed in visible stages, lights guttering under its shell. It dragged one more sound out of itself, rough and wet and clear enough for every translation device in the rescue zone to catch.

“Shield.”

Vanguard said nothing.

The Skrath twitched.

“Valon shield.”

Then it died.

For a moment, no one moved. The hospital still burned in small places. A monitor shrieked somewhere behind Elias. A child cried at triage. Human crews stared at the dead thing, then at the five aliens who suddenly looked less like rescuers and more like soldiers who had heard their names spoken by a ghost.

Elias looked at Vanguard. “What does that mean?”

Vanguard stood slowly. “It recognized our function.”

“Your function?”

“Advance shield. System defense. Interception force.” His voice was quiet now, which made it worse. “This hive line should not know Vanguard Five.”

“So this wasn’t random.”

“The attack may have begun as scouting.” Vanguard looked at the dead Skrath unit. “It may no longer be only that.”

“Because of you.”

Elias regretted the sentence as soon as he heard it.

Vanguard looked at him.

He did not defend himself. That was the worst part. Elias expected command, anger, maybe some alien version of offense. Instead, Vanguard accepted the blame so cleanly it looked practiced.

“Yes,” Vanguard said. “Because of us.”

Elias watched him turn away, back straight, blood drying on his face, the weight of something older than this hospital settling over his shoulders.

For the first time, Elias wondered what it cost to be that calm.

He found out twenty minutes later in an intact consultation room off the emergency corridor.

Intact was generous. The glass partition had cracked into a spiderweb. One cabinet hung open. A chair lay on its side. The air smelled like antiseptic, smoke, and the charged metallic scent that clung to Valonian equipment. Vanguard stood alone near the examination table, head bowed slightly, one hand braced against the wall.

Elias almost left.

Then Vanguard shifted, and Elias saw the blood again on his forehead.

“Sit,” Elias said.

Vanguard did not turn. “You have other patients.”

“And you’re bleeding in my consultation room.”

“I am not your patient.”

“Everyone bleeding in my hospital is my patient. Sit down.”

Vanguard turned. The command came back into his face automatically, like armor locking into place. “Doctor—”

“Elias.”

A pause.

“My name is Elias. You’ve used it once. Try again.”

Vanguard looked at him for a long moment. “Elias.”

“Good. Now sit before I decide your species evolved without common sense.”

Vanguard sat on the edge of the examination table.

Elias stepped between his knees because apparently that was becoming a pattern, and apparently neither of them had the energy to pretend they had not noticed. He opened a sterile wipe and cleaned the cut at Vanguard’s temple. The blood came away slowly, dark against Elias’s gloves. Some useless part of him felt relieved the blood was red.

“This may sting,” Elias said.

“I have endured worse.”

“I did not ask for your résumé.”

Vanguard watched him. “You are angry.”

“Very.”

“At me?”

“At the creature. At the building. At the city for putting pediatrics under old surgical supports. At myself for not getting there faster.” Elias tossed the used wipe into the medical bin. “And yes, at you.”

“Because I prioritized the Skrath.”

“Because you almost did.”

Vanguard’s eyes sharpened. “No.”

Elias froze.

The cracked glass whispered in its frame as Vanguard’s voice dropped lower. Not louder. Lower. The kind of low that did not need volume to touch everything in the room.

“I heard five lives in the rubble,” Vanguard said. “I heard billions beyond them. I heard a signal that could call a harvest fleet to your sky. I was not choosing between people and a monster. I was choosing which danger would kill more if I failed.”

Elias looked at him for a long moment.

The anger did not disappear. It changed shape.

“You carry that all the time,” Elias said.

Vanguard said nothing.

“That calculation.”

Still nothing.

Elias leaned one hand on the table beside Vanguard’s hip. “That must be lonely as hell.”

Vanguard looked away first.

There it was.

Not weakness. Elias hated that word. Weakness had nothing to do with it. This was the crack under the armor, the place where command stopped being posture and became cost.

Elias stepped closer before sense could catch up with him. “You should have said that outside.”

“There was no time.”

“There’s never time. Say it anyway.”

Vanguard’s gaze returned to him. “Would you have listened?”

“No.”

The corner of Vanguard’s mouth shifted.

Elias exhaled, almost a laugh. “Probably not.”

“You do not yield easily.”

“I’m an emergency doctor. Yielding is how people die.”

“I understand that.”

The answer was too simple. Too honest.

Elias became aware of his hand still resting near Vanguard’s side. Aware of Vanguard’s knees bracketing him. Aware of the suit, pearl-gray and graphite, no longer fully hardened for battle except in places where the material seemed reluctant to let danger go. Aware of the warmth under it. The restraint inside it.

Vanguard noticed him noticing.

Of course he did.

“Your pulse changed,” Vanguard said.

Elias laughed once under his breath. “Do not start diagnosing me.”

“I am not Pulse.”

“No. You’re worse. You say less.”

Vanguard’s voice lowered. “I can say nothing.”

The words settled between them.

Elias should have stepped back. He had patients. The hospital was still half-broken. The world outside had just learned monsters were real and aliens were beautiful enough to become a public health hazard.

Instead, he put one hand flat against Vanguard’s chest.

The suit was warm. Not fabric, not armor, not anything Elias had a word for. Beneath it, Vanguard’s body went still but not relaxed. Elias felt the effort it took him not to move first.

“You don’t have to command this room,” Elias said.

Vanguard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No?”

“No.”

“Who commands it?”

Elias moved his hand from Vanguard’s chest to the side of his neck, thumb just below the line of his jaw. He felt the pulse there. Strong. Faster than Vanguard would have liked.

“I do.”

Vanguard went very still.

The air changed. Heat gathered between them, not Ignis’s fire, not Valonian technology. Something older and less civilized.

“Is that so?” Vanguard asked.

Elias leaned closer. “You tell me.”

For one heartbeat, neither moved. Then Vanguard’s hands closed around Elias’s hips and pulled him in.

The kiss was not gentle.

Elias had expected restraint. Curiosity, maybe. Something controlled and alien and careful. What he got was hunger under discipline, pressure under silence. Vanguard kissed like a man who had decided not to retreat and had never learned how to want anything halfway.

Elias caught the edge of the examination table with one hand and Vanguard’s shoulder with the other. Vanguard made a low sound against his mouth, and the cracked glass behind them trembled.

Elias broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “Careful with that voice.”

Vanguard’s eyes were darker now. “It has been noted.”

“You shatter anything in here, you’re cleaning it up.”

“Under your command?”

“Yes.”

Vanguard’s hands tightened on his hips.

Elias felt the suit respond where their bodies pressed together, the graphite lower shield softening from battle readiness into something smoother, more intimate, still protective but unmistakably full. It was not crude. It was not hidden either. It contoured Vanguard with a precision that made Elias’s mouth go dry.

“Interesting suit,” Elias said.

“It adapts.”

“To threat?”

“Yes.”

Elias looked back up. “And this?”

Vanguard’s voice dropped again. “Also threat, but not to the body.”

Elias smiled despite himself. “Flattering.”

“You are not safe.”

“Neither are you.”

That did it.

Vanguard kissed him again, but Elias was ready this time. He pushed back, not away, but down. One hand at Vanguard’s chest, the other at his jaw, setting the pace. For half a second, Vanguard resisted on instinct.

Then he let Elias move him.

The concession hit harder than the kiss.

Elias felt it. Vanguard felt him feel it.

“You’re allowed to stop me,” Elias said.

“I know.”

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

The word was steady. That almost undid him.

Elias opened the upper seam of Vanguard’s suit where it met the collar. The material yielded to touch and command, loosening enough to reveal warm skin, hard muscle, and a faint line of embedded tech near the base of Vanguard’s throat. Elias traced it with two fingers.

Vanguard inhaled.

“There?” Elias asked.

“Yes.”

“Sensitive?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Vanguard’s hands flexed on him. “You enjoy command.”

“In my building.”

“In this room.”

Elias leaned in, mouth close to his ear. “On this table.”

Vanguard’s breath caught.

There.

Not weakness. Trust.

Elias kissed the side of his neck, then the line of his throat, feeling the vibration under the skin before he heard it. Vanguard did not speak. The sound stayed low and contained, a controlled resonance made of effort and permission.

Elias stepped back to lock the door and drag the privacy screen across the cracked window. He had no secrets, but the hospital had enough going on without giving the trauma team a show.

When he came back, he stood between Vanguard’s legs again.

Vanguard watched him the whole way. Still seated on the edge of the examination table. Still trying to look like command had any use in this room.

It didn’t.

Elias stepped closer, hands on Vanguard’s thighs, and leaned down toward him.

For the first time, uncertainty crossed Vanguard’s face. Not refusal. Not fear. A question.

Vanguard had learned enough to know Earth had two sexes. He had not yet learned that two did not mean only two kinds of desire. Whatever he had assumed about human males, Elias was about to correct it.

Elias understood enough by then. Valonian intimacy lived in the throat, in breath, in trust, in acts that were both pleasure and language. Human mouths did not resonate the same way. Human bodies did not follow Valon’s rules.

That was fine.

Elias had rules of his own.

But Elias knew how to read a body.

He set both hands on Vanguard’s thighs. “Still no stopping?”

Vanguard’s answer came rougher. “Still no stopping.”

The graphite shield opened only as far as Vanguard allowed, the suit shifting in precise, intimate layers until Elias could touch him.

Vanguard’s cock was beautiful, which should not have annoyed Elias but did, because the last thing he needed in a ruined hospital was one more part of Vanguard being impossible to ignore. Smooth-headed, full, and heavy in his hand, warm in a way that made the rest of Vanguard’s controlled stillness feel like a lie. The flexible skin moved differently than human skin, subtle and responsive, fitting close without hiding the shape.

Elias’s hand slid lower, then paused.

There was no visible scrotum. No loose sac, no familiar weight hanging beneath him. Just a change in texture, softer and warmer beneath the suit’s opened edge, as if something inside him had shifted closer to the surface without fully revealing itself.

Elias looked up. “Do you have testicles, or is that another question I’m not supposed to ask during a disaster?”

Vanguard’s mouth tightened, almost a smile. “We have seed-glands.”

“Of course you do.”

“They are protected until the body decides otherwise.”

“And when does the body decide otherwise?”

Vanguard’s voice dropped. “Keep going.”

That was not an answer.

It was better.

Elias took his time.

That was the first real command.

Vanguard’s hands found the edge of the examination table and gripped it hard enough to bend the metal. Elias looked up.

“Don’t break my table.”

Vanguard’s laugh came out broken.

Then Elias took him into his mouth.

Read more

Lake Arrowhead
West Hollywood
California

For the next three days, Brent and Zak slipped into a rhythm so natural and comfortable, it felt rehearsed. Like a life they’d already lived in some parallel world and were just now remembering together.

Each morning began with coffee on the deck overlooking the creek—Brent wrapped in a blanket, Zak barefoot in the chill, always watching the trees before he spoke. They hiked new trails by day, kayaked around the lake in the warm afternoon sun, and found hidden corners of the village where the air smelled like cinnamon and pine.

Brent laughed more than he had in months.

Not the polite chuckle he’d given friends in WeHo to keep conversation easy.

This was real.

From the belly.

Unplanned and uninhibited.

Zak wasn’t performing. He wasn’t trying to be charming. He just was—steady, grounded, curious. And that somehow made everything feel richer.

One morning, they packed a small cooler and drove the winding route up to Big Bear to hike the Castle Rock Trail—for the views. The road curled through the forest like a ribbon, sun slicing through the treetops in warm streaks.

Zak drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually on the console, knuckles brushing Brent’s thigh every so often like punctuation.

Brent looked out the window as they climbed, watching the trees shift from pine to fir.

“It’s funny,” he said, “how I used to think nature was something you ‘visited’—like an exhibit.”

Zak glanced over. “You don’t feel that way anymore?”

“No,” Brent said. “Now it feels like a place you can belong. Not escape to. Just… be in.”

Zak smiled, eyes back on the road. “That’s the best part. You stop trying to do anything and just let the place shape you.”

They drove a few more minutes in silence, the road rising in gentle switchbacks. A hawk circled above. Brent followed it with his eyes, then asked, “Did you ever think you’d live up here full-time?”

“Not at first,” Zak admitted. “I thought I’d rotate stations. Maybe head north. But this place stuck.”

“Why?”

Zak thought for a beat. “Because I found stillness here. And it didn’t feel lonely.”

Brent nodded, then grinned. “Also, they have really good pancakes in Big Bear.”

Zak laughed. “It’s possible that factored in.”

The rest of the drive passed like that—conversation flowing, pausing, returning again. Like a river with stones to curve around.

Natural.

Easy.

Castle Rock Trail wasn’t long, but it was steep in parts. At the summit, they sat on a flat boulder and stared out over Big Bear Lake, sunlight glittering off the water like scattered diamonds.

“I used to think views like this were wasted on one person,” Brent said. “They make you feel… small.”

Zak reached over and laced their fingers. “Small’s not a bad thing. Puts the bullshit in perspective.”

They sat there for a long time, arms and legs touching, not needing to talk.

Just breathing together, watching the clouds shift and the world stretch wide beneath them.

Later, they drove into town, enjoyed grilled chicken sandwiches at a rustic diner, and wandered into a used bookstore where Brent found a copy of Desert Solitaire, and Zak refused to let him pay for it.

For balance, Brent surreptitiously bought a small gift for Zak. It was a ceramic pot with pine trees carved into the porcelain and then glazed. He waited until they headed to the car so Zak wouldn’t protest.

Zak loved it and had the perfect place on his dresser to put it.

They drove home with the windows down, radio off, and a silence thick with meaning between them that was warm and safe.

When Brent’s final morning arrived at Creekside, neither man rushed the moment.

His bags were packed, but the zipper stayed open. Clothes folded, but not yet tucked away. Zak leaned against the deck railing, barefoot again, sipping coffee with his eyes on the trees.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” Brent said, the words catching slightly in his throat.

Zak looked over, gaze steady.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

They agreed easily—like most things between them. Zak would visit during his next four-day break. No pressure. Just a chance to feel what this was like in Brent’s world.

Four days later, Brent answered the door to his furiously cleaned apartment in West Hollywood to find Zak standing there—jeans, boots, a soft green button-up, and that same quietly curious expression.

Brent pulled him inside without a word.

They hugged and kissed as if it had been weeks.

The weekend was easy. They shared breakfast on Brent’s tiny patio, walked the quieter residential streets, spent a lazy afternoon at The Getty, and capped one night with dinner on a rooftop restaurant in Santa Monica with a view of the Pacific.

Zak didn’t judge anything, though Brent could see the way he scanned the chaos of traffic and tourists with a kind of amused detachment.

He didn’t belong here.

And he wasn’t pretending to.

One afternoon, Brent got irritated waiting for coffee at a crowded café and muttered something under his breath. Zak just smiled, squeezed his shoulder, and pointed to a shady bench nearby.

“Let’s sit. Let the swirl pass.”

As they sat on the bench, Brent watched a guy in aviators snap selfies with a protein shake while his dog barked at a stroller. Zak’s gaze followed the movement, amused but detached.

Brent suddenly wondered if bringing Zak here had been a mistake.

Not because of anything Zak said.

Because of what he didn’t.

This wasn’t Zak’s world.

It never had been.

By the third night, Brent found himself studying Zak’s hands as they rested on the edge of his couch—rough, solid, capable. He placed his own over them, lacing their fingers.

The clatter of espresso cups, the barking dog tied to a nearby bike rack, the endless buzz of people trying to be seen—Brent suddenly felt like he was watching the world through the wrong lens. Just two weeks ago, this chaos had been familiar.

Now it felt foreign.

Like waking up in someone else’s dream.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Brent said quietly. “Not in this apartment. Not in this noise.”

Zak didn’t move. “You sure it’s not just the weekend glow talking?”

Brent shook his head. “I used to think I had to live here to be someone. But you made me feel more like myself out there among the trees than I ever have on this block.”

Zak’s voice was soft. “What are you saying?”

Hesitantly, Brent said, “I want to move. To Lake Arrowhead. To you.”

He hoped this wasn’t overstepping.

Or too soon.

Brent swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what answer he expected. Maybe a pause. Maybe a polite letdown. What he didn’t expect was the way his chest opened up, like he’d finally exhaled after holding his breath for years.

Zak didn’t answer right away.

He just leaned in and kissed him—slow and sure.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s build something.”

A month later, Brent stood on the front step of Zak’s cabin, arms full of boxes, sun on his neck, and a flutter in his chest that felt a lot like joy.

The place had changed just slightly: a new desk Zak bought from a local artisan by the window with a creek view, the ceramic pot Brent bought for Zak in Big Bear, the coffee mug Brent bought in the village, Brent’s trail shoes lined up next to Zak’s boots, and a few of his framed photos from their past hikes arranged along the mantel.

They were little things, but enough to say:

I live here now.

And I am wanted.

Inside, the fire was already going. Zak took the boxes from his arms, set them down, and pulled him in for a kiss that felt like coming home.

They made dinner together—mushroom risotto and pan-seared trout. Zak taught Brent how to use, and clean, the cast-iron pan properly. Brent taught Zak how to zest a lemon without shredding his knuckles.

Afterward, they curled up on the couch, firelight flickering across their faces, the night hushed and holy.

Zak tilted his head to look at him.

“You ever think about where this leads?”

Brent smiled. “I used to think I had it all mapped out. But now? I think I’d rather walk it and see.”

Brent rested his head on Zak’s chest. The beat beneath his ear was steady and strong.

He’d come to the mountain to find peace.

He’d found love.

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like a question mark.

It felt like a trail.

And they were already on it.

Together.

Meanwhile, another story was just beginning up the creek at Creekside Lodge.

A yoga retreat was getting started, led by Juliano, an internationally known yoga instructor—famous for his smoldering good looks, magnetic personality, and how well he filled out his yoga shorts. Watch for the release of the first chapter of “The Retreat,” next Friday morning.

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Commander Vanguard believed every system had a sound.

Not a sound in the way most Valonians understood it. Not music. Not speech. Not the soft click of ship plating adjusting after a jump.

A system had pressure. Rhythm. A pattern in the dark.

Some systems felt empty before the scan confirmed it. Some felt crowded. Some held the faint mineral hum of asteroid belts, the pulse of young stars, the thin shiver of civilizations not yet strong enough to know how loudly they announced themselves to predators.

This one felt quiet.

Too quiet to matter.

Around him, Vanguard Five waited for the scan to catch up with what he had already heard.

Vanguard stood at the forward console of the Valonian advance vessel V-5. At his silent command, the system map rose above the console, a three-dimensional hologram alive with color, motion, and data. Twelve planets. Three gas giants. No major biological signatures. No distress echoes. No harvest residue. No Skrath.

Another clean system.

Good.

Clean systems were the reason they kept moving.

Behind him, Blitz made a sound of disappointment that would have been dramatic even if anyone had asked for it.

“Nothing,” Blitz said.

Vanguard did not turn. “That is the preferred result.”

“Preferred by commanders, empty space, and people who organize storage compartments by molecular density.”

Ignis, stretched across the lower bench with one arm behind his head, opened one eye. “He means you.”

“I know who he means,” Vanguard said.

Blitz walked barefoot across the command deck, wearing only the lower half of his skin-tight warrior’s suit, unsealed and riding low at his hips. He moved even when he was standing still. Fingers tapping. Shoulder rolling. Body ready for trouble.

“That was our ninth clean system,” Blitz said. “At some point, the universe owes us either a Skrath trail or entertainment.”

Ignis smiled without opening his other eye. “You had entertainment two hours ago.”

“That was maintenance.”

“You shouted.”

“I maintain loudly.”

Two Hours Earlier

Two hours earlier, Blitz had maintained very loudly.

It had started in the lower quarters, where Ignis had been recalibrating the heat regulators with his shirt off because, according to him, fabric interfered with accuracy.

Also, he preferred it.

Blitz had watched him from the doorway for almost three full seconds before saying, “You know the ship does have climate controls.”

Ignis had not looked up. “The ship’s climate controls lack appreciation.”

“For your technical skill?”

“For my chest.”

Blitz leaned against the frame. “Your chest has been praised plenty.”

Ignis turned then, slow and amused, firelight flickering faintly under his skin. “And yet here you are.”

Blitz should have had an answer for that. He usually had answers. Fast ones. Better ones. Occasionally inappropriate ones.

Instead, he crossed the room.

Ignis met him halfway.

Their mouths came together with the ease of Valonians who had done this before and would do it again without needing to define it. Their kisses were shallow at first, all lips and teasing tongue, the Valonian equivalent of knocking before entering even when both already knew the door was open.

Ignis felt warm, as he always did, like heat held just beneath the surface.

Blitz pushed him back against the equipment wall and felt Ignis laugh into his mouth.

“Careful,” Ignis said.

“With you?”

“With the regulators.”

Blitz slid one hand down Ignis’s bare stomach. When his fingers reached the waistband, he said, “I’m told I’m excellent with delicate systems.”

“You are told many things, by yourself.”

Blitz dropped to his knees and pulled down the waistband.

Ignis stopped laughing.

That pleased Blitz more than it should have.

Blitz was always satisfying. They were not bonded, not promised, not paired, but they fit each other remarkably well. Ignis knew it, and he liked knowing Blitz thought the same of him. Years of practice. Years of trust. Years of evolution proving itself useful in the most enjoyable ways.

Valonian warriors were built for intensity. Ignis was already hardening, smooth-headed and heavy, the flexible skin shifting with every stroke of Blitz’s hand, tightening as his body responded. Blitz let his palm slide lower, massaging the softer skin beneath the shaft. The more Ignis hardened, the more his paired seed-glands descended from their protected place within his body, settling heavy and warm into Blitz’s hand, while he applied his mouth higher up.

Valon had evolved its warriors’ bodies to be practical, responsive, and unmistakably meant to draw each other in.

Blitz approved of the design.

On Valon, there was pleasure, and then there was trust. Lips were play. Tongues were invitation. But the throat was where a Valonian offered something deeper than appetite.

Blitz took his time at first because rushing annoyed Ignis unless Ignis was the one doing it. He used his mouth shallowly, teasing, letting Ignis feel the difference between wanting and having. Ignis braced one hand against the wall, the other sliding into Blitz’s hair.

“This is maintenance,” Ignis said, his voice thick with amusement.

Blitz looked up at him. “Preventive.”

Then he took him deeper.

Ignis’s fingers tightened in Blitz’s hair, but the first real change happened in Blitz.

There it was.

The low answering vibration in his throat.

The resonance gland sat deep, sensitive to pressure, rhythm, breath, and trust. Every Valonian remembered the first time another reached that hidden place and made the adult voice answer from somewhere lower than speech. Some treated the memory like ceremony. Some like conquest. Blitz, naturally, treated it like proof he had excellent technique.

He knew the shape of Ignis. Knew how to open, how to breathe, how to let Ignis settle deep enough that the heat between them became more than friction. The pressure touched the gland, and Blitz let it answer. The vibration moved through his throat and into Ignis, low and hungry, a sound felt as much as heard.

Ignis’s knees bent.

“There’s your voice,” Ignis said.

Blitz drew back just enough to answer, rough and low, “You’re welcome.”

Ignis laughed, but the sound broke when Blitz took him deep again.

This time, Blitz let the vibration build instead of fighting it. He held Ignis there, breathing through the pressure, letting his throat answer in a slow pulse that made Ignis’s hand tighten in his hair. Ignis’s heat flared under his skin. The room lights dimmed, then brightened.

Blitz pulled back just enough to say, “If you damage the regulators, Vanguard will make you explain why.”

Ignis looked down at him, eyes bright. “Then stop being inspiring.”

Blitz laughed, and Ignis moaned because the vibration hit exactly where Blitz intended.

A moment later, Ignis hauled him up and turned him, fast enough that Blitz’s back hit the wall. Heat rolled between them, not burning, never burning, but close enough to make Blitz’s skin ache for it.

“My turn,” Ignis said.

Blitz grinned. “You always say that like I might object.”

Ignis went to his knees with none of Blitz’s teasing patience.

He was fire, after all.

His mouth was hot and confident. Blitz’s hands found Ignis’s hair, then his shoulders, then the wall behind him as Ignis worked him from play to surrender with infuriating skill.

Blitz’s voice broke.

Ignis drew back just enough to admire the result. “You shouted.”

Blitz looked down at him, chest rising hard. “I was being supportive.”

“You were losing control.”

“I can do both.”

Ignis’s smile sharpened.

Then he took Blitz deep again, and control became a theory Blitz no longer cared about.

This time, the resonance belonged to Ignis. His throat opened around Blitz, the gland answering pressure with that low vibration no Valonian could fake. Blitz felt it travel through him and strike somewhere behind his ribs, . His already-dropped seed-glands responded at once, settling heavier and more sensitive in Ignis’s hand.

Blitz stopped trying to answer.

Ignis had him too deep for cleverness now. There was only breath, heat, pressure, and the low vibration of Ignis’s throat answering exactly as it was meant to. They were unpaired warriors, but they knew each other too well to mistake pleasure for possession.

Ignis brought him close, then stopped.

Blitz opened his eyes. “Cruel.”

“Accurate.”

“I was close.”

“I noticed. That was the point.”

Ignis rose, smiling, and kissed him with Blitz’s own taste still on his mouth. Ignis caught him by the hips and turned them both toward the sleeping platform.

They fell together, laughing once, then not laughing at all.

Blitz shifted first, quick as ever, pulling Ignis with him until they found the angle they both wanted. Mouth to heat. Hands on hips. Thighs braced. Breath turning rough and uneven as each gave the other what he wanted at the same time.

Thankfully, it was not a contest.

There would be two winners.

Ignis lost patience first, which was no surprise. His body tightened, heat glowing beneath his skin as Blitz took him deeper and held him there, mouth working, throat humming, pleasure overtaking Ignis in a rush. Blitz stayed with him through it, one hand firm on his hip, the other cupping his seed-glands, until Ignis cursed in a voice rough enough to make Blitz laugh around him.

The laugh could have ruined everything.

Somehow, it made it better.

Ignis returned the favor with merciless focus, and Blitz lasted far less time than he intended. He came with both hands gripping Ignis’s hips, holding him close while Ignis softened slowly in his mouth, his own voice breaking so loudly the ship’s audio system politely asked whether medical assistance was required.

Ignis had answered firmly, “No!”

Blitz, now flat on his back and breathing hard, had added, “But compliments are welcome.”

The ship had offered none.

Pulse and Aegis

That had been two hours ago.

From the navigation station, Pulse’s mouth twitched at Blitz’s claim that he maintained loudly. They had all heard it before. Many times.

Pulse and Aegis were different. Their bond carried a slower heat, the kind that did not need to announce itself to the ship’s audio system.

Aegis did not respond. He simply stood behind Pulse, one broad hand resting at the back of Pulse’s neck while Pulse reviewed biological scans. It was a familiar touch, casual enough to seem absent-minded and intimate enough that no one aboard would mistake it for anything else.

Pulse leaned back into it.

Vanguard saw the motion. He saw everything on his ship. He permitted most of it. They lived together through jumps, alarms, boredom, recovery, and danger. Flexibility was not indulgence. It was survival.

“System clear,” Pulse said. “No biological collapse. No harvest scars. No Skrath residue in the outer belt.”

“Then we move,” Vanguard said.

Blitz groaned.

“We are assigned forty-three systems,” Vanguard continued. “We have cleared nine.”

Ignis sat up at last, firelight flickering lazily beneath the skin of his hands. “Only thirty-four more opportunities for Blitz to complain.”

“I pace morale,” Blitz said.

“You bruise morale.”

“I improve morale. Ask anyone.”

“No,” Vanguard said.

Blitz grinned. “You were going to ask.”

“I was not.”

“You thought about it.”

“I thought about airlocking you.”

Pulse’s mouth twitched. Aegis’s eyes warmed, which from him was practically applause.

Blitz placed one hand over his heart. “Cruelty from leadership. I shall report this to Valon.”

“Valon already knows,” Ignis said. “They assigned you to him.”

Vanguard gave the next jump command before Blitz could answer. The system map disappeared above the console. Beyond it, the stars stretched into silver threads, then vanished.

The ship entered the between-space with a soft pressure shift and the clean metallic scent of charged shields.

Five warriors, one vessel, thirty-four systems left.

Vanguard’s pulse steadied.

This was what they were built for.

Not restlessness. Not weariness. Not complaint, despite Blitz’s ongoing commitment to the art.

Focus.

Strength.

Protection.

Growth.

Those had become Valon’s guiding words after the Skrath first reached their skies.

Valon

Before that, Valon had not needed a creed carved for survival.

Before the Skrath, Valon had been open.

Vanguard still remembered the courtyards of his youth, though he had not stood in one for years. Warm stone under bare feet. Sunlight falling through copper leaves. Young Valonians wrestling in training circles not for war, but for sport. Voices rising from the teaching houses, deep and layered, hundreds of adult tones blending in debate, song, laughter, argument, desire.

Valon had always been a one-sex world.

Not a world missing an opposite sex.

There had never been another sex.

No division in origin stories. No old myth of two halves. No ancient longing for some other shape of body to complete them. Valonians were born from seed, voice, cradle, and care. They were raised by houses, not pairs alone. They grew among bearers, seeders, nurturers, teachers, bondmates, shield-brothers, pleasure companions, rivals, elders, and children who belonged to everyone responsible enough to love them.

Desire was not a secret on Valon.

It had rules, of course. Consent, clarity, maturity, trust. A civilization did not survive by pretending actions had no consequences.

But shame had never been one of the rules.

A young Valonian’s first adult voice was celebrated in the resonance halls. Families gathered. House-brothers teased. Teachers pretended solemnity and failed.

The resonance gland deep in the throat matured through age and breath training. When a Valonian reached adult readiness, intimate stimulation with a trusted companion who had already completed his own resonance awakening helped the gland open, vibrate, strengthen, and settle. Lips and tongue awakened the path. Deeper contact taught the gland to open, vibrate, strengthen, and settle.

By the time a Valonian reached adult readiness, the resonance gland deep in the throat had already matured through age, breath training, and desire. A trusted companion who had already completed his own resonance awakening could help guide the gland open, vibrate, strengthen, and settle.

The first time Vanguard’s voice dropped fully, he had spoken one word and made every ceremonial cup in the room tremble.

That was the official story.

His entire house had applauded for three minutes.

The private version belonged only to Vanguard and the companion guiding him, who had finished in his throat before the final syllable had fully faded. Vanguard never included that detail when the story was told in public.

Blitz still claimed his first full resonance had made two ceremonial benches slide backward.

Ignis claimed his had set a curtain on fire.

Pulse insisted both stories had been exaggerated by at least forty percent.

Aegis never said what happened to him, but Pulse’s smile whenever the subject came up suggested the story was better than all of theirs.

On Valon, the throat was pleasure, identity, voice, and life.

Shallow kisses were invitation. Lips and tongue were play. The mouth was courtship, teasing, comfort, affection, hunger.

But the throat was trust.

The throat was where a Valonian offered himself fully.

It was also where life could begin.

Not always. Not with every act. Not with every partner. Valonian reproduction was rarer, more intentional, and more biologically complex than pleasure alone. A bearer’s body had to be ready. The cradle organ had to open. Seed had to pass the resonance path and be drawn through tissue that was not stomach, not lung, but something older than either. Something Valon had evolved before language, before houses, before the first city built itself around the first cradle sanctuary.

Deep throating could be pleasure.
Deep throating could be bonding.
Deep throating could be creation.

The distinction mattered.

That was why Vanguard Five kept moving.

Not for conquest. Not for glory.

For Valon.

Forward Sweep

Another jump completed.

Another system opened.

Vanguard stood before the forward console. At his silent command, the system map rose above it, the new star taking shape at its center.

Pulse lifted his head. Aegis’s hand tightened slightly at his neck.

Vanguard saw it. “Report.”

Pulse’s pupils widened as the scans fed through his implant. “Outer system debris. Two rocky planets. One ice belt. No major civilization.”

Blitz stepped closer to the map. “Skrath?”

“Not current.” Pulse adjusted the scan. “Old trace. Faint. Maybe three cycles. Maybe more.”

Ignis was on his feet before Pulse finished.

Vanguard raised one hand.

Ignis stopped.

“Confirm,” Vanguard said.

Pulse sent the scan through three filters. His expression sharpened. “Confirmed. Skrath residue. Not harvest-class. Scout passage.”

Blitz’s restlessness vanished. He could complain through a routine jump, flirt with danger too easily, and make more noise than any warrior on the ship had a right to make. But the moment the Skrath entered the picture, Blitz became exactly what Valon had trained him to be.

Fast.

Focused.

Lethal.

Vanguard looked at Ignis. “Heat signature?”

Ignis set his palm over the console’s sensor field. Firelight gathered beneath his skin, then threaded into the hovering map. “Cold trail. They passed through. Didn’t feed.”

“Direction?”

Pulse and Ignis worked together in silence. Aegis moved to the shield station. Blitz sealed his warrior’s suit.

There it was. Vanguard’s favorite sound in any system.

Not quiet.

Not battle.

Readiness.

The trail stretched across the map, faint but steady, cutting through the inner corridor toward a small blue world near a yellow star.

Pulse looked up. “Third planet. They were looking for something.”

“They are always looking for something,” Aegis said.

Ignis smiled, but there was no play in it now. “Then let’s disappoint them.”

Vanguard gave the next jump command.

“Vanguard Five,” he said. “Forward sweep. Full alert.”

No one joked.

The system map collapsed inward above the console. Beyond it, the stars stretched into silver threads, then vanished.

In the between-space, there were no stars.

Only the thin hum of the drive, the breath of five warriors, and the memory of Valon before the first harvest ship dropped into orbit and turned an entire coastline brown.

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Creekside Lodge
Lake Arrowhead, California
Forest Service Cabin

Brent woke before sunrise.

He’d barely slept—his mind looping through fragments of Zak: the sound of his voice in the dark, the heat of his skin, the way he’d whispered like he was afraid of breaking something sacred.

Brent didn’t want to rush anything, but it didn’t feel rushed.

It felt… like a decision already made.

After the morning yoga class, Brent lingered, watching Jake roll up mats with his usual casual focus. Jake glanced up when Brent didn’t move.

“You good?”

Brent hesitated. “I think I’ve met someone.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

Brent nodded, then added, “He’s a forest ranger.”

Jake paused, then his smile widened slightly.

“Zak.”

Brent blinked. “You know him?”

Jake leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “He’s not on staff or anything, but he’s kind of part of the extended family. Been up here a long time. He’s got his own place down by the creek, but he’s stayed over as a guest-of-a-guest now and then. A couple retreats back, he joined for yoga and dinner, even led a hike one morning.”

Brent was still for a moment. “He feels like someone who… belongs.”

Jake nodded. “He does. But he doesn’t cling. He just shows up, makes everything feel more grounded, then disappears up the mountain again.”

Brent smiled. “Sounds about right.”

Jake gave a small shrug. “If he’s letting you in, pay attention. He doesn’t do that for just anyone. Zak’s a good man. Solid. Doesn’t do anything halfway.”

Brent exhaled. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Jake tilted his head. “Why afraid?”

“Because I don’t want to screw it up.”

Jake smiled gently. “Then don’t. Just stay honest. And don’t overthink the timeline.”

Brent spent the rest of the morning gathering supplies: a crusty artisan loaf, ribbons of cured meat, sharp cheese, crisp crudités, and a bottle of aged single-malt whiskey he’d splurged on without hesitation.

He packed everything with care, added a change of clothes, and tucked in his Dopp kit—because waking up beside Zak called for fresh breath, at minimum.

He zipped the pack closed with a small nod to himself.

He was ready.

By late afternoon, he was back on the trail, heart beating in quiet rhythm with each step. The ranger’s cabin came into view just as the sun began to mellow. Smoke curled from the chimney.

Zak opened the door shirtless, sunlit, and smiling.

“I was hoping you’d show.”

Brent held up the bag. “I brought provisions. Including the good stuff.”

Zak raised an eyebrow. “Cheddar or whiskey?”

Brent grinned. “Both.”

They ate sitting on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, their bodies brushing now and then in quiet punctuation. The food disappeared slowly between stories, dreams, and easy laughter. At some point, Brent poured two fingers of whiskey, then held up his glass.

“To another night. And whatever comes next.”

Zak met his gaze, then touched his glass to Brent’s.

“To you coming back.”

That night, they didn’t rush.

But they also didn’t hold back.

It started with Zak stretching out on the bed while Brent stoked the fire, the glow catching the lines of Zak’s bare chest like he’d been carved out of the light itself. When Brent turned, Zak was already watching him—eyes soft, lips curved, inviting but unhurried.

Brent crossed the room slowly, crawling onto the bed like a current pulling him in. They kissed first—long, languid, almost lazy at first.

Then hungrier.

Zak tasted like whiskey and trust. Brent pulled back just long enough to whisper, “Still good?”

Zak nodded, breath catching. “Even better.”

They undressed each other piece by piece, teasing, pausing, letting hands and mouths wander. This time wasn’t reverent like the first. It was playful, curious. They laughed between kisses, moaned between jokes, and rediscovered each other like bodies learning a shared language.

Brent kissed Zak’s collarbone, then lower, then lower still. Zak’s fingers gripped his hair, then relaxed as Brent took his time. Tongues met skin, teeth grazed thighs, and fingers traced slow spirals across backs, hips, and the soft insides of arms.

Every inch was fair game.

And every inch was claimed.

When Zak pulled Brent up and rolled him gently onto his back, it was like picking up the second verse of a favorite song. Brent welcomed him with legs parting, arms wrapping around his shoulders.

They didn’t just take turns.

They shared turns.

One guiding while the other received, then shifting without a word, like dancers in rhythm. Zak entered Brent slowly, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other resting on his chest like a grounding stone. Later, Brent took Zak the same way—kneeling behind him, both of them breathless and gasping into the quilt, sweat-damp and open.

Between the movements were pauses, strokes, smiles. A finger tracing the edge of a jaw. A thigh pressed between two. The press of lips against the back of a neck, right where breath trembles most.

They explored everything—softness and strength, pressure and tenderness.

There was nothing rushed, nothing repeated, only newness drawn from the same well.

By the time they finally collapsed together, tangled and slick, hearts thudding in some shared tempo, Zak tucked Brent into his arms and whispered, “I like all of you. Being with you just reminds me how much.”

Brent blinked at the ceiling, then turned to look at him.

“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

They fell asleep like that, with skin still tingling and limbs folded together.

This time, it wasn’t about finding each other.

It was about finding what was possible.

Morning came gently. Zak dressed and closed down the cabin while Brent packed. They hiked down together, not saying much—just footsteps in rhythm, like music only they could hear.

Back at Creekside, Brent and Zak slipped into fresh yoga gear, provided by Brent, and joined the midmorning class. Jake shot Brent a thumbs-up. Dante smirked from his mat. It was like a quiet welcome into something unspoken.

Afterward, they went to Sage & Cedar—as recommended by Jake and Dante, since it was where they had gone for their first date. Zak borrowed jeans and a Henley from Brent’s bag. They blended in almost too well, like a couple that had always been.

That night, they made love again—but slower now, more familiar. This time in a king bed with wonderful bedding and a bedside fireplace. They didn’t try to impress each other. They touched because they wanted to, because it felt good, because their bodies already knew the way.

Zak stretched out beneath Brent at one point, smiling as Brent traced his lips along his stomach, down, and further. Later, Zak flipped Brent gently and took the lead—fingers first, then more, until Brent was whispering his name like a mantra.

The morning light filtered through the bedroom windows, catching in the soft edges of the fireplace’s last glow. Brent stretched beneath the thick duvet, sore in the best way—used, relaxed, held.

Zak was already up, barefoot in the kitchen, making coffee, wearing nothing but a faint grin.

When he brought Brent a mug and crawled back under the covers beside him, he said, “Want to see where I live?”

Brent blinked. “You mean your real cabin?”

Zak nodded. “It’s about halfway to the village. Still on the creek. Not as fancy as this”—he gestured around the king bed and dual fireplaces—“but it’s home.”

Brent took a sip of coffee, then smiled.

“Let’s go.”

They packed light—just a change of clothes and last night’s ease between them. The trail wound gently through the trees, following the same creek that curled behind Brent’s cabin. After about fifteen minutes, Zak turned down a narrower path lined with ferns and mossy stones.

A small wooden gate appeared, and beyond it, a one-bedroom cabin nestled close to the water, shaded by tall pines.

“This is it.”

The cabin was humble, but clearly loved. The exterior was weathered wood, with ivy creeping along the edges and a narrow porch that wrapped halfway around. Inside, the space opened into a single-story layout with a living area and rock fireplace, a modest but well-stocked kitchen, and a bedroom just off the main room—offering a view of the fireplace through the doorway and the creek out the windows.

The floors were pine, worn smooth, and the walls were lined with framed trail maps, landscape sketches, and shelves full of dog-eared books.

The kitchen was surprisingly modern—gas range, deep farmhouse sink, a rack of cast iron pans neatly hung beside dried bundles of herbs. A small woodstove in the corner kept the space warm, and a low couch faced the creekside windows. Outside, a small footbridge crossed the narrow stream to a stone patio, where two chairs waited like old friends.

Brent set his bag down and wandered slowly through the space.

“It suits you.”

Zak leaned against the counter. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Simple. Grounded. Thoughtful.”

They walked into the village for groceries—vegetables, fresh bread, wine. Back at the cabin, they cooked together again, a rhythm already forming between them. Zak lit candles while Brent stirred the sauce. They ate late, bare feet brushing under the table, wine glasses catching firelight.

That night, in Zak’s bed, things moved slower still.

Less hunger, more exploration.

They knew each other’s bodies now—but that didn’t mean there weren’t new places to discover, new ways to give and take, new corners of trust to explore. Brent guided Zak with a hand pressed to his chest, then leaned in to kiss along his ribs, lower, until Zak was breathless.

Later, Zak held Brent from behind, kissing his shoulder, his neck, whispering things Brent didn’t know he needed to hear until they settled in his bones.

Afterward, they lay together in the dark, listening to the creek just outside the open window.

Neither said much.

They didn’t have to.

But somewhere in that stillness, between breath and heartbeat, Brent knew something was shifting.

His retreat at Creekside was almost over.

And now he had someone worth coming back to.

Or maybe—just maybe—someone to build something new with.

Share

Ithaca appeared through morning mist like a memory refusing to become real.

Machus stood at the bow as the island took shape: first the dark rise of the hills, then the cliffs, the narrow coves, and finally the pale structures scattered across the slopes. Somewhere beyond them stood the palace where his mother had waited, where the suitors had consumed his father’s stores, and where he had spent eighteen years learning to live beneath the weight of an absent king, and father.

Xanthos came to stand beside him. Neither spoke for several breaths. Machus felt the warrior’s arm brush his own as the ship entered the hidden cove Odysseus had chosen. The contact was slight, but it steadied him.

“You are counting exits again,” Machus said.

“I am counting boats.”

“How many?”

“Three fishing vessels. One skiff. Nothing large enough to pursue us.”

“You expect pursuit before we have landed?”

“I expect people to behave according to their interests.”

Machus smiled faintly. “My father says something similar.”

“Your father says many things.”

Odysseus stood behind them with the captain, wrapped in a coarse cloak. He had darkened the gray in his hair but kept the beard shorter than the disguise he had worn at the port. From a distance, he might have passed for a merchant or veteran returning to family.

Up close, no disguise concealed the way he watched Ithaca.

Machus turned. “You have not said anything since the island appeared.”

Odysseus looked toward the hills. “I have said everything to it that matters.”

“In your head?”

“Where the island is less likely to interrupt.”

Machus waited.

His father’s mouth shifted. “I missed it.”

The admission was simple enough to sound painful.

The ship scraped onto the sand.

Odysseus stepped down first, then turned as though to help Machus. The gesture surprised both of them. Machus accepted his hand. For one brief moment, father and son stood joined between the sea and the home neither knew how to enter. Then Xanthos jumped down beside them. Teir weapons were concealed beneath travel cloaks.

A man emerged from the olive trees above the cove. He was broad through the middle, gray at the temples, and armed with a shepherd’s staff and a knife that had seen more sharpening than cleaning. Two dogs followed him, growling until Odysseus lowered his hood.

The man stopped. His staff fell from his hand. “My king.”

Odysseus crossed the sand and embraced him.

Machus recognized Eumaeus from childhood visits to the royal herds. He looked older, though not as much older as Odysseus did.

Eumaeus drew back and searched the king’s face as though expecting the years to vanish if he stared long enough.

“You live.”

“For now.”

“Penelope—”

“Does not know.”

The joy in Eumaeus’s face tightened into caution.

“The palace is watched. Servants carry words to the suitors for silver. Some do it from fear. Others because they believe the queen will eventually choose among them.”

“She has not?”

“No. She has delayed them at every turn.”

Machus stepped closer. “How many remain?”

Eumaeus looked at him. The surprise came more slowly than it had with Odysseus.

“Prince Telemachus.”

“Machus.”

Eumaeus’s gaze shifted toward Xanthos, then returned to the prince.

“Twenty-three remain in residence. Others come for feasts or whenever they believe the queen may announce a decision.”

“You left with one guard.”

“I returned with the finest warrior in Ithaca.”

Xanthos inclined his head.

“And with a king,” Eumaeus said.

Machus looked at his father. “Yes.”

They climbed from the cove by a narrow path hidden among olive trees. Eumaeus led them to a stone house used during the lambing season. The shutters were closed, and no smoke rose from the roof.

Inside, the loyal herdsman spread a rough map of the palace grounds across a table. It was drawn in charcoal on the back of an old inventory sheet.

Odysseus studied it. “Who controls the western gate?”

“Men loyal to Antinous.”

“The armory?”

“Locked. The suitors keep their own weapons in the great hall. Twenty-three remain in residence. Others come for feasts or when they believe the queen may announce a decision.”

Machus frowned. “Twenty-three is fewer than when I left.”

“They grew tired of waiting.”

“Or ran out of family silver,” Odysseus said.

Eumaeus pointed to the servants’ court. “I can bring in six men without notice. Philoetius can bring four more from the cattle grounds.”

“Ten against twenty-three,” Xanthos said.

“Thirteen,” Odysseus corrected.

Machus looked at him. “You are including me.”

“I am including all three of us.”

Eumaeus glanced toward Machus, as if uncertain whether the prince should be counted among warriors.

Machus noticed. “So did the bandits who attacked us,” he said.

Xanthos hid a smile.

Odysseus bent over the map.

“We wait until the evening meal. The outer gate is closed after the wine is served. Eumaeus’s men secure the courtyard. Xanthos takes the western passage and prevents reinforcements from reaching the hall.”

“And you enter disguised,” Machus said.

“Yes.”

“Then reveal yourself once they are trapped.”

Odysseus looked up. “You disagree.”

Machus studied the map. He had imagined the return many times during the voyage. In each version, Odysseus entered the hall and destroyed the men who had consumed his home. It had seemed just, when they were faceless.

Now Machus thought of twenty-three bodies on the floor, servants slipping in blood, and Ithacan families receiving sons who would never explain why they had followed stronger men into treason. “Not all of them are Antinous,” he said.

“They all entered my house.”

“Yes.”

“They all pressed your mother to marry.”

“Yes.”

“They all consumed what belonged to Ithaca.”

Machus met his father’s eyes. “And some are cowards who followed men with greater ambition. Kill the ringleaders. Give the others one chance to surrender.”

Odysseus straightened. “A king who offers mercy before victory may look weak.”

“A king who cannot distinguish enemies from fools may look frightened.”

Eumaeus became very interested in the map.

Odysseus stared at his son.

Machus felt Xanthos beside him but did not look for reassurance. He knew it was there.

“What do you propose?” Odysseus asked.

“We remove their weapons before you reveal yourself.”

“They keep swords at their belts.”

“Because no one has challenged them. During the feast, wine is served at the tables. A servant spills a jar near the western benches. Others move in to clean it. While they complain, our men close the shutters and bar the doors.”

“That leaves the swords.”

“Xanthos and I enter openly.”

Odysseus’s expression hardened. “No.”

“They know me. They know him. They will watch us instead of the servants.”

“You place yourself in the center of the room.”

“Yes.”

“With twenty-three armed men.”

“Not if Mother calls for the traditional peace of the household before I enter.”

Odysseus looked toward Eumaeus. The herdsman nodded slowly.

“By custom, weapons are placed against the wall when Penelope receives a petitioner formally.”

“And the suitors honor this custom?” Odysseus asked.

“They honor appearances,” Machus said. “Especially when they believe she may finally choose.”

Understanding entered Odysseus’s face. “You intend to make them think she has summoned them for a decision.”

“Yes.”

“Penelope will never agree to use herself as bait.”

“Then you remember her poorly.”

Eumaeus coughed into his hand.

Odysseus looked from Machus to Xanthos.

“What do you think?”

Xanthos did not answer immediately. Machus turned toward him. The warrior studied the map rather than either king or prince.

“The plan reduces the number of drawn blades,” he said. “It also places Machus where every man can reach him.”

“You object?”

“I dislike it.”

“That was not my question.”

Xanthos finally met his gaze. “I trust your judgment.”

The words carried more weight than agreement.

Odysseus heard it too.

“And if his judgment fails?” he asked.

“Then I will be close enough to correct the consequences.”

Machus smiled. “You see one of the reasons he remains by my side.”

“I am beginning to.”

Odysseus looked again at the map. “Antinous and Eurymachus will not surrender.”

“No,” Machus said.

“And the others may only pretend.”

“Then we judge them by what they do after the offer is made.”

Odysseus’s fingers rested against the charcoal walls of the palace. It was the first decision of consequence he had permitted Machus to shape. Perhaps he understood that. “Very well,” he said. “We use your plan.”

Machus felt pride move through him, followed almost immediately by fear.

Xanthos’s hand settled briefly at the base of his back. Not protection. Recognition.

Penelope came to the shepherd’s house after nightfall wearing the plain cloak of a servant.

Machus recognized her carriage beneath the cloak. He crossed the room so quickly that the stool behind him overturned. “Mother.”

She pulled back the hood. For a moment, she only looked at him.

Machus had changed during the journey. He knew it from the way strangers treated him and from the confidence with which he had challenged Odysseus.

None of that prepared him for his mother’s face. Her composure broke. She crossed the distance and held him. Machus closed his eyes against her shoulder.

He had not allowed himself to imagine the relief of returning to her. Finding Odysseus had occupied every thought, but Penelope had been the fixed point beneath the journey—the person he assumed would remain even when everything else changed.

“You came back,” she said against his hair, and held him even closer.

When she released him, she held his face between her hands.

“You are thinner.”

“I am stronger.”

“You are both.”

Her eyes moved past him. Odysseus stood near the table.

Penelope’s hands lowered.

No one spoke.

Machus stepped aside.

He had waited his entire life for their reunion, but the silence between them belonged to years he could not enter.

Odysseus removed his cloak.

Penelope searched his face without moving closer. “You took your time.”

“I encountered delays.”

“I heard.”

Odysseus’s mouth almost curved. “Most of them are exaggerated.”

“Which ones?”

“The interesting ones.”

Her eyes filled, though her voice remained steady. “You are either my husband or a man who studied his arrogance carefully.”

“I could prove it.”

“You will.”

Machus glanced at Xanthos.

The warrior had retreated toward the wall, giving the family space while remaining alert to every sound outside. Penelope noticed him. Her attention moved from Xanthos to Machus, then back again.

Something in her expression changed. Not surprise. Recognition. She had always seen more than people intended to reveal.

“You kept your promise,” she said to Xanthos.

“I returned him safely.”

“Not unchanged.”

“No.”

Machus felt heat rise in his face.

Penelope looked at her son.

“You chose well.”

“I did not choose him as a guard.”

“I know.”

Xanthos became very still.

Odysseus looked between them.

Penelope turned to him. “You did not notice?”

“I noticed.”

“And?”

“I have been home for less than a day.”

“That has never prevented you from forming opinions.”

Machus laughed before he could stop himself. Odysseus gave him a wounded look that was not entirely false. Penelope touched her husband’s face. The gesture silenced all of them. “You are real,” she said.

“Yes.”

Her hand moved through the gray at his temple. “You have aged as well.”

“So are you.”

Xanthos studied the ceiling.

Machus covered his mouth.

Penelope’s eyes narrowed.

Odysseus added, “Beautifully.”

“You learned something on the journey after all.”

She kissed him. It was not the desperate reunion of a wife restored to a legend. It was slower, uncertain at first, and then deepened by recognition.

Machus looked away. His gaze found Xanthos. The warrior was watching him.

No words passed between them.

None were needed.

Penelope understood the plan before Odysseus finished explaining it. She changed two details.

“The peace custom will not be enough,” she said. “Antinous stopped honoring it months ago.”

“Then we remove the weapons another way,” Odysseus said.

“No. We give him a reason to display obedience.”

She looked at Machus. “You will return to the palace at midday.”

“Openly?”

“Yes. You will announce that you found reliable news of Odysseus but no proof he lives.”

Odysseus frowned. “Why declare me dead before I reveal myself?”

“Because the suitors must believe the last obstacle has been removed.”

Penelope continued before he could object. “Tonight, I will say I am prepared to select the man who can best defend Ithaca until Machus is ready to rule. They will place their weapons at the wall because each will want to appear more disciplined than the others.”

“And if Antinous refuses?” Xanthos asked.

“He will not be the first man to reveal fear.”

Machus studied his mother. “You have been fighting them longer than any of us.”

“Yes.”

“Then you should decide what happens to those who surrender.”

Penelope looked at Odysseus. “That may be the first wise thing either of you has said.”

Odysseus sighed. The sound was so familiar despite being new that Machus nearly laughed.

Penelope traced the map with one finger. “The servants who remained loyal will know where to stand. The disloyal ones will be locked in the kitchens until the hall is secure.”

“You know which are which?” Odysseus asked.

“I have had eighteen years to learn patience.”

Machus exchanged a glance with Xanthos.

His parents were reunited less than an hour, and already the strategy had become theirs.

It did not diminish his part in it.

It made him understand where his own instincts had come from.

Machus entered the palace beneath the midday sun. No disguise concealed him. Xanthos walked at his right shoulder wearing the dark leather of an Ithacan warrior. The wound at his side had healed enough that only a faint stiffness remained, but his hand rested close to his sword.

Servants stopped in the courtyard. One dropped a basket of figs. The sound drew men from the great hall.

Antinous appeared first. He was handsome in the polished way of a man who had never been denied comfort. Gold fastened his cloak, and his beard had been trimmed that morning. “Telemachus.”

“Antinous.”

The suitor came down the steps. “We heard you fled.”

“I traveled.”

“To find your father?”

“To learn what became of him.”

More men gathered behind Antinous.

Machus allowed the silence to lengthen.

“And?” Eurymachus called from the doorway.

Machus looked at him.

“I found stories.”

Antinous smiled.

“Stories do not rule kingdoms.”

“No.”

“Did you find proof he lives?”

Machus thought of Odysseus waiting within Eumaeus’s house, planning how to retake the home behind them.

“No.”

Relief moved through the gathered men. Some concealed it better than others.

Antinous spread his hands. “Then you have returned in time. Your mother has finally agreed to consider Ithaca’s future.”

“My mother informed me.”

“Tonight, she chooses the strongest man to protect the kingdom.”

Machus glanced at the men behind him. “Then I hope you all behave with dignity.”

The warning sounded like courtesy. Xanthos understood.

Antinous looked toward him. “You returned with the guard.”

“I returned with Xanthos.”

The distinction was deliberate.

“He obeys you now?”

Xanthos answered before Machus could. “I stand beside him.”

Antinous’s smile weakened.

Machus continued into the palace. He felt the eyes of servants and suitors follow them through the courtyard. The walls looked unchanged. The same painted dolphins curved across the plaster. The same columns caught the same afternoon light.

But the palace felt smaller than the home he had left. Or perhaps Machus had grown beyond the shape it once required him to fill.

He climbed the stairs to his chamber. Xanthos entered behind him and closed the door.

Machus crossed to the balcony. Below, the training courtyard lay empty. He placed both hands on the stone wall where he had once watched Xanthos spar, separated by distance and imagination.

The warrior came to stand beside him.

“You were there,” Machus said.

“Where?”

“The first time I understood what wanting someone felt like.”

Xanthos looked down into the courtyard. “Watching me train.”

Machus turned sharply. “You knew?”

“I noticed you staring.”

“And said nothing.”

“I thought discretion was kinder.”

Machus smiled. “So did I.”

Machus leaned against him. “Tonight may go badly.”

“Yes.”

“You could pretend otherwise.”

“You would know.”

Xanthos touched the side of his face. “I will be near you.”

“I know.”

“Your plan is sound.”

“I know that too.”

“Then what frightens you?”

Machus looked toward the open chamber. “That this room feels exactly as it did when I left, but I do not.”

Xanthos followed his gaze. “Rooms adjust.”

“Do they?”

Xanthos glanced toward the bed. “At least you have a princely bed. We won’t have to push two together like we did in Pylos.”

Machus laughed.

Xanthos kissed his forehead. “We will teach this room.”

They lay down together for a while, holding each other and gathering themselves for the danger ahead.

The suitors entered the great hall at sunset.

Penelope waited at the far end beneath the carved lintel bearing Odysseus’s crest. She wore deep blue, with gold at her wrists and a veil falling from the back of her hair. Machus stood below her. Xanthos took his place near the western passage as planned.

The suitors filled the benches, speaking too loudly and drinking too quickly. Servants moved among them with wine, and each man tried to appear unconcerned by the others.

Antinous wore a sword.

Penelope looked at it.

“My lord Antinous.”

He rose.

“My queen.”

“You enter a council called under the peace of my household.”

His hand moved to the hilt.

“A precaution.”

“Against whom?”

Laughter moved uneasily through the hall.

Antinous looked toward Machus. The prince did not react. Slowly, the suitor unfastened the sword and carried it to the wall. One by one, the others followed.

Servants refilled the cups.

Machus recognized which among them were Eumaeus’s men by the way they avoided looking at him. As the jars were poured, shutters closed throughout the hall.

The final door barred with a heavy wooden sound.

Antinous turned. “What is this?”

Machus stepped forward. “The moment when Ithaca decides what kind of men remain within it.”

Eurymachus laughed. “You speak like a king because your father is dead.”

A hooded servant entered through the eastern passage carrying a bow wrapped in linen.

He placed it on the central table.

Odysseus removed his hood. No one moved. Recognition did not arrive at once. The man before them was older than the king who had sailed to Troy. The scars were wrong. The beard held too much gray.

Then Penelope descended the steps and stood beside him. The hall erupted.

Antinous lunged toward the weapons.

Xanthos stepped into his path and drew his sword.

Machus raised his voice.

“Stop.”

Some did.

Antinous did not.

He seized a spear from the wall and turned toward Odysseus.

Xanthos struck the shaft aside. The wood cracked against the floor, and Antinous stumbled.

Odysseus drew the short sword concealed beneath his servant’s cloak.

Eurymachus reached the weapons first and threw a blade toward Machus. Machus saw it leave his hand. Xanthos was too far away. Odysseus moved toward him, but the distance was wrong. Machus turned. The blade passed his shoulder and struck the column behind him.

Silence followed.

Not fear.

Choice.

Machus drew his sword. “Every man in this hall now knows Odysseus lives,” he said. “Every man also knows the doors are secured and the palace is surrounded.”

Antinous recovered his footing. “You threaten noble houses.”

“I offer them one chance to remain noble.”

He looked across the gathered men. “Antinous and Eurymachus plotted against the throne. They consumed our stores, threatened my mother, and prepared to divide Ithaca before confirming its king was dead.”

“That makes all of you guilty,” Odysseus said.

Machus turned toward him. “It makes all of them responsible. Not equally guilty.”

Odysseus held his gaze.

This was the moment when the return might become only his father’s victory.

Machus would not allow it. He faced the suitors again. “Any man who places his hands where they can be seen and swears before the household gods to surrender his claim may leave alive. His family will repay what he consumed, and he will answer before a council of Ithacan households.”

A young suitor near the rear raised his empty hands.

Antinous stared at him. “Coward.”

Another followed. Then three more.

Eurymachus seized a sword and charged.

Xanthos met him.

Their blades struck once, twice, and then Xanthos turned beneath the third attack, using the movement Odysseus had recognized at the port. He drove the hilt into Eurymachus’s chest and sent him crashing across the table.

Antinous rushed toward Machus.

Machus did not retreat.

He caught the spear beneath its point and forced it aside. Antinous drove a shoulder into him, and both men struck the floor.

Machus heard Penelope shout his name.

Antinous reached for the knife at his belt.

Machus trapped his wrist.

For an instant, he saw surprise in the older man’s face. The prince he had dismissed had disappeared on the road.

Machus struck him once across the jaw, then rolled free and rose.

Antinous came after him with the knife.

Odysseus stepped between them.

His blade entered beneath Antinous’s ribs.

The suitor stopped.

Odysseus withdrew the sword, and Antinous fell.

Eurymachus lay near the table with Xanthos’s blade at his throat.

“Yield,” Xanthos said.

Eurymachus looked toward Odysseus, then Machus.

“You would let me live?”

Machus answered.

“If you surrender.”

The suitor’s hand tightened around his sword.

Then he twisted suddenly and slashed upward.

Xanthos moved faster.

The fight ended with one clean thrust. Eurymachus collapsed beside the overturned wine.

No one else reached for a weapon.

Odysseus stood over Antinous, breathing hard.

Machus looked around the hall. Fourteen men knelt with empty hands raised. Others had retreated to the walls. Two lay dead. Not twenty-three.

The palace had been reclaimed without becoming a slaughterhouse.

Odysseus looked at his son.

Neither spoke.

Respect passed between them without requiring agreement.

Penelope came down from the dais. She stopped before Machus and examined the cut along his shoulder where the thrown blade had grazed him.

“It is nothing,” he said.

“That is what warriors say before staining the furniture.”

Xanthos reached them. His gaze found the blood at once.

“I am fine.”

“You are bleeding.”

“Barely.”

Xanthos touched the torn fabric near the wound but did not inspect it further in front of the hall.

Penelope watched the exchange.

Then she looked at Odysseus. “Our son has returned.”

Odysseus wiped his blade. “Yes.”

She shook her head. “You misunderstand me.”

Odysseus looked at Machus again.

This time, he did not misunderstand.

The next days belonged to judgment.

The suitors who surrendered were returned to their families under guard. Their households pledged grain, livestock, and silver to repay what had been consumed. Those who had threatened servants or conspired directly with Antinous faced a council of elders.

Odysseus presided. Machus sat beside him.

At first, the older men directed every argument toward the returned king. By the third day, some turned toward the prince before answering.

Machus did not agree with every decision his father made. Odysseus did not expect him to. They argued privately, adjusted where they could, and stood together in public.

Xanthos remained near the council doors throughout each session. He no longer stood behind Machus. He stood at his side.

On the fourth evening, Penelope summoned the three of them to the smaller family chamber overlooking the western gardens.

No servants attended.

Odysseus poured wine.

Penelope declined hers.

Machus waited.

His mother rarely arranged privacy without intending to use it.

Odysseus took the chair nearest the hearth. Penelope sat opposite him. Machus remained standing beside Xanthos.

Penelope looked at their joined shoulders.

“You may sit.”

They took the bench together.

Odysseus drank.

Penelope folded her hands. “We should discuss what happens now.”

“The council meets again tomorrow,” Machus said.

“I do not mean the council.”

Machus felt Xanthos become still beside him.

Penelope continued, “Odysseus has returned. The throne is secure for the moment. Ithaca will soon begin asking about succession.”

“I am the succession.”

“You are the beginning of it.”

Machus understood.

“Marriage.”

“Yes.”

Xanthos’s expression revealed nothing.

Odysseus leaned forward.

“No decision is required immediately.”

“But one will be required eventually,” Penelope said.

Machus looked at Xanthos before answering. “I will not pretend he is temporary.”

“I do not expect you to,” Penelope said.

Odysseus remained quiet.

Machus faced both parents. “Xanthos will remain part of my life and my household. Not as a hidden comfort. Not as a man dismissed when duty becomes inconvenient.”

Xanthos turned toward him. “You do not have to declare this as though defending me.”

“I am not defending you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Making certain no one confuses your silence with uncertainty.”

Penelope’s eyes softened.

Odysseus looked at Xanthos. “What do you want?”

The warrior considered the question. “To remain beside him.”

“In what position?”

Machus started to answer.

Xanthos touched his knee.

“As the man he trusts,” Xanthos said. “The title is less important.”

“It will not be less important to Ithaca,” Odysseus said.

“No.”

“You have led men?”

“In the field.”

“You maintained order in my absence?”

“When the authority given to me allowed it.”

Odysseus looked at Penelope.

She nodded once.

“Commander of the royal guard,” Odysseus said. “With a seat on the king’s military council.”

Machus smiled.

Xanthos did not. “I will accept if Machus wishes it.”

Odysseus raised an eyebrow.

“You require the prince’s permission?”

“I require his agreement. The title will shape how others interpret my place beside him.”

Machus answered. “I want you to accept.”

Xanthos looked at him. “It does not define what you are to me,” Machus said. “It gives Ithaca words for the place you already hold.”

Penelope glanced toward Odysseus. Their exchange carried the ease of rulers accustomed to finding political purpose inside private truth.

“And marriage?” Odysseus asked.

Machus took a breath.

“If I marry, the woman will know before she agrees.”

Penelope nodded. “She must.”

“I will not promise love I have already given.”

“No,” his mother said. “But affection may take more than one form.”

“And heirs?” Odysseus asked.

“I understand what the kingdom may require.”

Xanthos spoke quietly. “No woman should be used only to provide them.”

Penelope studied him. “That answer is why I trusted you with my son.”

Machus looked at her. “You knew?”

“I knew you watched him.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No. But mothers build knowledge from small pieces.”

Xanthos lowered his gaze to hide a smile.

Penelope continued, “There are women who would accept such an arrangement if offered respect, position, honesty, and the freedom to build a life within it. There are others who would not. Neither should be judged for the choice.”

“No deception,” Machus said.

“No deception,” she agreed.

Odysseus emptied his cup. “A kingdom rarely offers a perfect solution.”

Machus looked around the chamber. “Then we will build an honest imperfect one.”

Odysseus smiled. “That may be the best form of government available.”

Penelope rose. “The matter is not settled.”

“No,” Machus said.

“But the truth is.”

She kissed his forehead, then paused beside Xanthos.

“You brought him home.”

“He brought himself.”

“Perhaps.”

Her gaze moved between them. “You brought each other home.”

That night, Machus returned to his chamber with Xanthos.

The room had been cleaned while they attended council. Fresh linen covered the bed, and a lamp burned beside a shallow bowl filled with olive oil and herbs for the cut on Machus’s shoulder.

Xanthos closed the door. His new commander’s cloak hung over one arm. Machus took it from him and placed it on a chair. “It suits you.”

“It is heavy.”

“You have worn armor.”

“Armor has a purpose.”

“So does the cloak.”

“To make men assume I know what I am doing?”

“They already assume that.”

Xanthos reached for the clasp at Machus’s shoulder.

The prince caught his hand. “No.”

The warrior stopped.

Machus smiled. “Tonight, I undress you.”

Xanthos’s expression changed. “Is that an order from the future king?”

“It is a request from the demanding lover you created.”

“I deny responsibility.”

“You encouraged me.”

“I made several errors.”

Machus removed the clasp from Xanthos’s tunic. The fabric opened at his chest. “One of them was teaching me patience.”

“That does not sound like you.”

“The teacher was very persuasive.”

Machus pushed the tunic from his shoulders. Xanthos allowed it to fall.

The warrior stood before him in the lamplight, stronger and more familiar than the man Machus had watched in the courtyard months earlier. He knew every scar now. The pale line along the right ribs.bThe dark mark beneath the collarbone. The wound along the left side, healed into a thin red seam. Machus touched it. “Does this still hurt?”

“Only when you ask.”

“Liar.”

“Only a little.”

Machus bent and kissed the scar.

Xanthos’s hand moved toward his hair.

Machus caught it and pressed it back to his side.

“I said I am doing this.”

The warrior’s mouth curved. “You have become commanding.”

“I have had good examples.”

Machus loosened the wrap at Xanthos’s waist. He did it slowly, watching the warrior watch him. The last fabric fell. Xanthos stood without covering himself.

Machus had seen him naked before, but the willing stillness was new. Xanthos was accustomed to action—to protecting, directing, and deciding what happened next. Tonight, he allowed himself to be observed.

Machus stepped back.

Xanthos raised an eyebrow. “You are staring again.”

“I am better at it.”

Machus let his gaze move openly over him. The breadth of his chest. The hard lines of his abdomen. The powerful thighs. The lion stirring between them beneath Machus’s attention.

Xanthos shifted.

“Do not become shy now.”

“I have changed clothes in front of entire companies of soldiers.”

“Not while they admired you.”

“How can you be sure?”

Machus smiled. “Now that you mention it, I may have misspoken.”

He came closer and placed both hands against Xanthos’s chest. “I spent years imagining touching you.”

Xanthos laughed.

Machus kissed the dark mark beneath his collarbone. Then the scar through his eyebrow. Then his mouth.

The kiss remained gentle while Machus’s hands explored the body he already knew. Familiarity had not made Xanthos less compelling. It had changed admiration into possession of another kind—not ownership, but knowledge freely given.

Machus guided him backward. Xanthos sat on the bed.

“Lie down.”

The warrior obeyed.

Machus stood between his knees. “You enjoy this.”

“Watching you discover authority?”

“Letting me use it.”

Xanthos considered the question. “I enjoy giving it to you.”

The answer sent heat through Machus.

Read more

Forest Service Cabin
Creekside Lodge
Lake Arrowhead, California

Zak

Zak pulled on his boots quietly, careful not to wake Brent.

The fire still glowed faintly, embers pulsing under the new logs Brent had added before they fell asleep—if it could even be called sleep. Zak had barely closed his eyes. Not from discomfort.

Just… presence.

He’d never felt so grounded and undone all at once.

He looked over his shoulder.

Brent was curled on his side under the blanket, one arm thrown loosely across the pillow, the faintest smile still on his lips. He looked peaceful. Undone in the best way, like a man who’d finally let go. The firelight touched the curve of his shoulder and made him look like something Zak had dreamed up.

Zak lingered a moment longer than he meant to.

Then he scribbled a note, set it on the bench with the last of the whiskey bottle, and slipped out into the morning.

The air was crisp, dew still clinging to the ferns along the trail. Zak moved through the woods with the practiced ease of someone who belonged. Every footfall was quiet. Intentional.

The forest accepted him.

But his mind wasn’t here.

Not fully.

Not the way it usually was.

He replayed Brent’s hands on his hips. Brent’s voice in the dark. The feeling of giving in to something he’d never expected to want.

He should’ve felt exposed.

Instead, he felt… open.

And once you’re open, there’s no going back.

Work grounded him. He ran checks on three small trails, cleared a few fallen branches, and cataloged animal tracks on a lesser-used ridge path. The usual rhythm helped. Muscle memory and mental quiet.

And still, he kept thinking: That man is more than a surprise. He’s a whole shift.

At lunch, he sat on a flat boulder overlooking the valley and opened his thermos of black coffee.

Thanks for last night. And this morning. If the trail leads you back this way—I’ll be here.

—Z

He hadn’t meant it to be poetic.

Just honest.

And reading it back in his mind, he didn’t regret a word.

He didn’t know what Brent would do with it.

But he knew what he hoped.

Brent

Brent stirred awake with the kind of ache he hadn’t felt in years—sated and slightly sore, like his body had been used with purpose, not just desire.

The fire was down to a whisper, the room empty but still warm.

Then he saw the note.

And smiled.

He read it twice before tucking it gently into his wallet, like it was something fragile he didn’t want to crease.

His hike down to the lodge was quiet. He passed a few early hikers but didn’t stop to chat. His legs felt lighter, his lungs fuller, but his head was far from clear.

He wasn’t overthinking it.

He was feeling it.

At the lodge, he joined the yoga session like he hadn’t just been spiritually realigned by a forest ranger with hands that could fell a tree or make him forget his own name.

Jake, Dante’s husband, led the morning yoga. Surprisingly, Dante and Mark were there too.

Brent had met Dante at check-in—charming, direct, quick with a grin. Jake was calm but commanding, the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. Mark, quieter than both, moved with a steady grace that caught Brent off guard.

The three of them had an easy rhythm, not choreographed but natural, like people who’d figured out how to breathe in each other’s orbit. Jake would brush a hand across Dante’s shoulder in passing. Mark would offer a towel without a word.

No performance.

No awkwardness.

Brent couldn’t tell where the lines were, but he knew they weren’t rigid.

Whatever this was, it worked.

He wasn’t here to figure them out. But the way they existed together—balanced, imperfect, close—made something in him soften.

Connection didn’t have to be clear-cut.

Just real.

Jake’s voice drifted through the room, calm and encouraging. “Relax into the position. Don’t force it. Let your hips seek the stability of resting on your heels.”

Brent exhaled slowly.

Too late.

His hips already remembered the way Zak held them.

Now he just hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself in thin nylon gym shorts.

After yoga, he showered and changed into fresh clothes, then made his way down the trail toward the creek. The water moved slowly and steadily beside him, mirroring something inside. He found a sun-warmed boulder, sat cross-legged, and just breathed.

Even now, sitting still, he could feel the echo of Zak’s breath on his skin.

He thought about Zak’s laugh. His restraint. How he’d asked, not assumed.

How it had felt like trust.

By early afternoon, he was back in the village—window shopping, people-watching. He stopped at a café with shaded tables and a blackboard menu that promised things like “herbed goat cheese toast” and “seasonal sangria.”

He ordered both.

The toast was excellent—thick, rustic bread just as you’d expect in the mountains. The sangria was cold.

Still, all he could taste was the salt on Zak’s chest.

He closed his eyes between bites, letting his tongue linger against his teeth like he was still tasting him.

By the time the sun dipped low, Brent had journaled twice, done a second yoga class, and tried to meditate.

Meditation didn’t stand a chance.

Not with the memory of Zak still stirring under his skin.

His body was at the lodge.

But his mind?

Still tangled in flannel and firelight, with a man who didn’t just want him.

He saw him.

Exactly as he was.

Brent reached for the note in his wallet, smoothing its fold with his thumb. The words were simple. But they carried weight.

He could’ve packed his bag right then. Followed the trail back up.

But something in him—something newly awake—wanted to be sure.

This wasn’t about chasing the echo of last night.

It was about what might still be waiting.

One more day.

That’s all he needed.

Tomorrow, he’d hike back up.

Zak had said he’d be there.

And Brent believed him.

That evening, Zak sat on the porch of the ranger cabin, the mountains bathed in golden light.

He poured the last of the whiskey into the glass they’d shared and took a slow sip.

The hush hung in the cabin, familiar but edged with something new.

He told himself it was just the company he missed.

But it wasn’t.

It was Brent.

Share

The road east from Pylos carried them away from the sea before returning to it two days later.

By midday, the hills opened onto a small port built around a narrow inlet. Fishing boats crowded the shallows, their painted hulls pulled onto the stones. Beyond them stood a handful of storehouses, a shrine blackened by years of smoke, and an inn whose upper balcony leaned toward the water as though listening for sailors’ secrets.

Machus slowed his horse.

“This is where Nestor’s messenger said we would find the sailor?”

“The caravan stopped here for supplies,” Xanthos said. “Whether the sailor remains is another question.”

“You always know how to preserve hope.”

“I prefer hope that has survived inspection.”

Machus smiled despite himself.

The fortified estate mentioned in Nestor’s message had turned out to be little more than a vineyard enclosed by a high wall. The Phoenician sailor had stayed there one night, then traveled with a merchant toward the coast. At each stop, the trail had narrowed rather than vanished.

Someone resembling Odysseus had been seen.

A dark-haired stranger. Older. Scarred. Clever with languages. Traveling beneath a name no two witnesses remembered the same way.

Every description offered Machus another version of the father he had never known.

None felt real.

They dismounted near the inn. Xanthos handed their reins to a stable boy, then surveyed the port before entering.

Machus watched him.

“You are doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Counting exits.”

“Three from the inn. One from the courtyard. The kitchen opens onto the rocks behind the building.”

“You saw all that from here?”

“I saw enough.”

Machus stepped closer. “And the man near the storehouse?”

Xanthos’s gaze moved without turning his head.

An older stranger sat on an overturned amphora beneath a faded awning. His hair and beard were threaded with gray. A travel-stained cloak concealed most of his body, but one weathered hand rested on a walking staff beside him.

He appeared to be watching fishermen unload a boat.

Machus felt certain he was watching them.

“He noticed us before we dismounted,” Machus said.

“Yes.”

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

The stranger scratched his beard and looked toward the sea.

Machus lowered his voice. “He does not move like an old man.”

“No.”

“Perhaps we should speak to him.”

“Perhaps we should let him wonder why we have not.”

Together, they entered the inn.

The common room smelled of fish, wine, and damp rope. Sailors crowded the tables nearest the windows, while merchants occupied the darker corners with tablets and measuring weights spread before them.

The innkeeper glanced up from behind a counter.

“Beds or food?”

“Information,” Machus said.

“Most expensive thing I sell.”

Xanthos placed a coin on the counter.

“We are looking for a Phoenician sailor who arrived with a merchant caravan.”

“Half the sailors here claim to be Phoenician when they want better prices.”

“This one spent time on Cythera,” Xanthos said. “He spoke of a dark-haired king traveling south.”

The innkeeper’s hand stopped above the coin.

Machus noticed.

“So you have heard of him,” he said.

“I hear many things.”

“Did you hear this sailor’s name?”

The innkeeper swept up the coin.

“He called himself Baalshillem. Or something close enough that no Greek tongue could improve it.”

“Is he here?”

“He was.”

“When did he leave?”

The innkeeper looked toward the open doorway.

The older stranger was no longer beneath the awning.

Xanthos saw it too.

“Yesterday,” the innkeeper said. “Took passage on a grain ship.”

“For where?”

“Crete.”

Machus’s frustration sharpened. “Which port?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “The captain did not invite me aboard.”

Xanthos leaned one hand against the counter.

“What did the sailor say about the king?”

“That he lived.”

Machus waited for more.

The innkeeper busied himself arranging cups.

“That is all?”

“That is what you asked.”

Machus placed another coin beside his hand.

Here’s the section with the father comment removed and the sailors’ motivation made clearer without over-explaining it:

The innkeeper looked at it but did not touch it.

“He said the man called himself Eperitus. Said he had lost every ship and most of his crew. Said the gods had developed a personal interest in making him suffer.”

Machus went still.

The name meant nothing to him. The rest did.

The innkeeper studied him properly for the first time.

“Who are you?”

Xanthos shifted closer.

The movement was slight, but it placed his body between Machus and every man seated behind them.

The innkeeper noticed.

So did Machus.

“I am the man asking,” Machus said.

A stool scraped across the floor.

One of the sailors rose from a nearby table. He was thick through the shoulders, with a broken nose and a knife tucked openly into his belt. His eyes moved over Machus too carefully—his clothes, his bearing, the warrior at his side.

“Questions about kings attract trouble,” the sailor said.

The room quieted around him. Two other sailors turned in their seats.

Machus understood then. These men had not been drinking their way through the afternoon for pleasure alone. Men like this listened. Men like this carried stories from port to port, and someone, somewhere, had put coin behind the right kind of rumor.

A stranger asking after a lost king was worth noticing.

A young man asking with guarded eyes and a warrior at his shoulder was worth more.

Machus looked to Xanthos.

He did not ask what to do. The glance was enough.

Xanthos’s hand remained loose at his side.

“We are not seeking trouble,” he said.

The sailor smiled.

“Trouble does not require permission.”

Two more men stood behind him.

The innkeeper stepped away from the counter.

Machus felt Xanthos’s attention divide. One man carried a knife. Another had wrapped a chain around his fist. The third kept reaching beneath his cloak.

The common room quieted.

“You should leave,” Xanthos said.

The sailor laughed. “You first.”

Machus saw the blow coming.

Xanthos moved before it landed.

He caught the sailor’s wrist, turned beneath the man’s arm, and drove him face-first onto the counter. The second attacker swung the chain. Machus ducked, seized a stool, and thrust it between them.

The chain wrapped around one leg of the stool.

Machus twisted.

The man lost his balance, and Xanthos struck him once beneath the jaw.

The third attacker drew a short blade.

An arm appeared from behind him.

The older stranger caught the attacker’s knife wrist and pulled him backward. His walking staff struck behind the man’s knee. As the attacker buckled, the stranger pivoted, reversing the staff and pressing it across his throat.

The movement was economical.

Almost lazy.

Xanthos froze.

The stranger looked at him.

For the first time, age left his face.

“Watch the feet,” Xanthos said quietly.

The stranger’s eyes sharpened.

“Not the weapon,” he answered.

The words emptied the room of sound.

Machus looked from one man to the other.

Xanthos released the sailor against the counter.

“No one else taught that turn,” he said.

The older stranger pushed the third attacker away. The man stumbled into his companions, and all three retreated toward the door.

No one stopped them.

The stranger set his staff on the floor.

“You learned it well.”

Machus stared at him.

The gray hair. The beard. The lined face shaped by weather and hunger rather than palace life.

Nothing about him resembled the painted figure in his mother’s chamber.

Nothing except the eyes.

Dark, alert, and measuring everything.

Machus’s mouth went dry.

“Odysseus,” Xanthos said.

The stranger looked at him, but his attention did not remain there.

It settled on Machus.

For years, Machus had imagined the first words his father would say.

His name, perhaps.

An apology.

Some declaration that blood recognized blood across any distance.

Instead, Odysseus said, “You looked to him before deciding whether to fight.”

Machus felt anger rise through the shock.

“You watched us?”

“Since you entered the port.”

“Why?”

“To know whether the prince of Ithaca had become a man capable of surviving the journey home.”

“You could have asked.”

“Men answer questions with the person they wish to be.”

“And fighting reveals the truth?”

“Usually.”

Machus stepped toward him.

Xanthos’s hand touched the center of his back—not restraining him, only letting him know he was there.

Odysseus’s gaze dropped briefly to the contact.

“You are Telemachus,” he said.

“I am called Machus.”

“By him?”

“By those close to me.”

The words landed deliberately.

Odysseus looked at Xanthos again.

Something like understanding entered his face, but he said nothing.

Machus had expected himself to move forward. To embrace the man. To demand proof. To fall apart beneath the weight of everything he had waited to feel.

Instead, he stood an arm’s length away and studied a stranger.

“You are older than the stories,” Machus said.

Odysseus smiled faintly. “The stories are younger than I am.”

“That sounds like something a story would say.”

The smile disappeared.

Xanthos turned toward the innkeeper.

“A private room.”

The man pointed quickly toward a doorway behind the counter.

No one asked for payment.

The room contained a table, three chairs, and a shuttered window overlooking the harbor.

Odysseus remained standing.

Xanthos closed the door but did not sit.

Machus paced once across the room before facing his father.

“Why the disguise?”

“Because men are searching for Odysseus.”

“So was I.”

“Not all of them intend to bring me home.”

“Who wants you dead?”

“Men who fear what my return means. Others who believe I know where Troy’s wealth was taken. A few who simply wish to say they killed the man who conceived the wooden horse.”

Machus looked at the gray in his beard.

“You are returning to Ithaca?”

Odysseus glanced toward Xanthos.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether Ithaca can be reclaimed without destroying what remains of it.”

“The suitors are consuming your house while my mother holds them back with a loom, a funeral shroud, and promises.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I have heard enough.”

“Then why are you here?”

Odysseus’s face tightened. “Because arriving openly with no army and no knowledge of which households remain loyal would be an excellent way to die before reaching the palace.”

“You could have sent word.”

“To whom?”

“To Mother.”

“A message can be intercepted.”

“To me.”

“You left Ithaca.”

“To find you.”

“Yes.”

The single word made Machus feel as though the ground had shifted beneath him.

“You knew?”

“Not until recently.”

“And still you watched from beneath an awning rather than speaking to me.”

“I needed to know who traveled beside you.”

Xanthos moved away from the door.

“You know who I am.”

“I remember a boy outside the training ground who refused to leave even after the guards chased him away.”

“You told them to let me watch.”

“I told them to train you.”

“You left before they finished.”

Odysseus accepted the charge without reacting.

Xanthos continued, “The king I remember would not hide behind fishermen while his son crossed half of Greece looking for him.”

“The king you remember led thousands of men toward Troy and returned with none of them.”

Silence settled between them.

Machus looked at his father.

For the first time, he saw the exhaustion beneath the disguise.

Not weakness.

Weight.

“How many survived?” he asked.

“Fewer than deserved to.”

“And the rest?”

“Storms. Hunger. Monsters, if you prefer the language of poets. Men became careless. I became proud. Each victory convinced me I could force the next.”

“You did not choose to stay away.”

Odysseus looked at him.

“No.”

“Troy called you.”

“My oath called me. Agamemnon used it.”

“And after?”

“The sea did not care what I wanted.”

Machus had imagined accusing him of choosing adventure over home. The truth offered no clean target for the resentment he had carried.

But it did not erase it.

“I know you were called away,” Machus said. “I know storms scattered your ships and enemies delayed you. I know every tale told about your cleverness.”

Odysseus waited.

“I do not blame you for leaving,” Machus continued. “But I grew up with a legend where a father should have been.”

The words hurt more than anger.

Odysseus’s expression changed.

Not defensiveness.

Recognition.

“I cannot return the years to you,” he said.

“No.”

“I cannot become the man you imagined.”

“I am beginning to understand that.”

Odysseus lowered himself into one of the chairs.

For the first time since revealing himself, he looked old.

“I thought of you as a child for too long,” he said. “It was easier than imagining what my absence required you to become.”

Machus sat opposite him.

“My mother made sure I became something.”

“She would.”

“She kept Ithaca standing.”

“I never doubted it.”

“You should have.”

Odysseus almost smiled. “You sound like her.”

“I am told I have your grip.”

That brought a real laugh, brief and broken by emotion.

“You said that before you had teeth.”

“Nestor remembered.”

“Nestor remembers his own speeches better than anyone who endured them.”

Machus laughed despite himself.

The sound eased something in the room.

Not enough to make them father and son.

Enough to begin.

Odysseus looked toward Xanthos, who still stood near the door.

“You protect him as though the task belongs to you alone.”

“It was given to me.”

“By Penelope?”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

Xanthos met his gaze. “Now I would do it without an order.”

Machus turned toward him.

The answer was meant for Odysseus, but it reached him too.

Odysseus studied the distance between them, the ease with which Machus’s attention returned to Xanthos, and the way Xanthos never stopped measuring the room even while speaking of love without naming it.

“You should find a room,” Odysseus said, looking first at Machus, then at Xanthos. “We leave before sunrise.”

“For Ithaca?” Machus asked.

“Not yet.”

The hope fell from his voice.

Odysseus continued, “There are men at this port who will sell news of me before nightfall. We go north by land, then take a ship from a harbor less closely watched.”

“You are coming home.”

Odysseus looked toward the shuttered window.

“Yes.”

The innkeeper gave Machus and Xanthos a room at the back of the upper floor.

It was smaller than the chamber in Nestor’s palace and far less comfortable. A narrow bed stood against one wall, with a pallet rolled beneath it and a lamp burning on a shelf.

Neither man commented on the single bed, but Machus felt a stirring.

The moment the door closed, Machus turned and pulled Xanthos toward him.

Their mouths met hard.

Xanthos caught him around the waist as Machus drove him backward against the wall. The controlled warrior who had faced Odysseus without flinching yielded to the kiss with a sound deep in his throat.

Machus pressed closer.

All the anger, relief, and confusion of the reunion had left him needing something real enough to hold.

Xanthos was real.

His hands. His mouth. The hard body beneath his tunic.

The man who had chosen him before either knew whether Odysseus lived.

Xanthos broke the kiss only long enough to breathe.

“Tel.”

Machus kissed him again.

Xanthos reversed them, pressing Machus against the wall with his body. One hand cradled the back of his head while the other slid beneath his tunic.

Machus closed his eyes.

“No,” Xanthos said.

The word echoed their first night.

Machus opened them.

Xanthos held his gaze.

“You have carried enough ghosts today.”

Machus’s hands tightened at his waist. “Then make me feel something alive.”

The warrior’s expression softened.

He kissed Machus more slowly.

Machus turned Xanthos back against the wall.

The urgency remained, but tenderness entered it, turning desperation into recognition. Xanthos lifted the tunic over Machus’s head and let it fall. Machus did the same for him, uncovering the scarred chest he had learned first through distance and then through touch.

He kissed the pale line along Xanthos’s ribs.

The dark mark beneath his collarbone.

The newest scar on his left side, now closed but still pink.

Then Machus sank to his knees.

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Forest Service Cabin
Above Lake Arrowhead, California

The ranger’s cabin looked exactly like what Brent needed: simple, quiet, and somehow… safe.

The inside smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. A small stone hearth sat to the left, already swept and ready. Topped with a thick wool blanket, a narrow bed sat along the far wall. A bench. A small table with two chairs. A cast iron pan was left on a towel to dry.

There were no decorations aside from pinecones, no clutter.

Just function and peace.

Zak moved easily in the space, dropping his pack, then lighting the fire with practiced ease.

“You warm enough?” he asked.

Brent, still shirtless from his hike, smirked. “I mean… I won’t say no to firelight.”

Zak didn’t look away. “It suits you.”

Brent blinked, caught off guard—not by the compliment, but by the way Zak said it. No flirtation. No agenda.

Just observation.

While the fire grew, Zak rummaged for a flannel shirt to loan Brent. Then he pulled ingredients from a small crate: eggs, potatoes, a bunch of herbs that looked freshly picked, and a sealed container of already-cooked chicken.

“Simple dinner,” Zak said. “Mountain hash, basically. Hope that’s okay.”

Brent smiled. “That sounds amazing.”

He sat on the bench while Zak worked. No apron. No fuss. Just a man who knew how to use a knife and a skillet.

“You always cook for lost hikers?” Brent asked, voice low, teasing.

“Never before,” Zak said without missing a beat.

Brent laughed softly. “Lucky me.”

Zak thought there might be bigger forces at work.

Dinner was warm, filling, and seasoned like someone who paid attention. Zak poured a small glass of whiskey they’d have to share. They ate by firelight, the glow softening the space, deepening the quiet between them.

They talked. At first, surface-level: the weather, the work, the weirdness of West Hollywood.

But it didn’t stay there.

Brent admitted he’d been feeling empty lately. Not broken. Not lost. Just… tired of being wanted for the wrong reasons.

Zak didn’t flinch. He nodded, then shared how people assumed his life was lonely just because it was quiet. He’d had connections that felt good in the moment, but never fit long-term, mostly because he never needed someone to complete him.

And most people didn’t like that.

He poured another inch of whiskey. Brent added a log to the fire.

Time slipped.

They sat cross-legged on the rug, bare feet near the fire, the bottle between them.

Brent said, “You’re easy to talk to.”

Zak replied, “That’s because I’m not trying to fix anything and I’m not trying to be anything I’m not.”

It was sometime after midnight when the conversation slowed. Brent leaned his head against the wall, eyes soft, the fire casting gold across his skin. He was grateful for the flannel shirt Zak loaned him, but he didn’t bother to button it up.

Zak watched him for a long moment.

No rush.

No assumptions.

“You’re welcome to stay,” he said.

Brent met his gaze. “I wasn’t planning to leave.”

They didn’t rush. No scripted moves, just the natural pull of something inevitable.

Zak reached out, fingers brushing Brent’s arm. The touch lingered. Brent leaned in, and their lips met—slow, warm, exploratory. Zak tasted whiskey and something new.

Something… open.

Brent was taking it in, not forcing anything.

They kissed until their breath deepened, until hands slid beneath waistbands and skin met skin.

Zak took the lead, but it was Brent who steered the mood. Gentle, steady, fully present. He kissed like he meant it. Like he wanted Zak to feel it in his spine.

And Zak did.

When Brent pulled back and asked softly, “Do you want this?” Zak didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

They threw the thick blanket over the rug and explored every inch of each other by the fire, the glow dancing across their bodies.

Zak had never bottomed. Those who were drawn to him usually were. Even the few couples he’d been with had relished the pleasure he offered.

He’d never really thought about bottoming. He took the part that was usually expected of him and made love to Brent as a great top. Brent was very open to it. When they settled into missionary position, Brent’s long legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer.

Their eyes met and locked.

They both knew this was a special, unique, loving experience. Zak could feel Brent’s heart soften and open up to him.

They weren’t finished.

Brent asked if he could give Zak the same pleasure.

Zak admitted he’d never gone there with anyone—not fully. A finger or two, in moments of curiosity, usually in the shower. Some had asked, but it had always felt clinical, disconnected. For him to let someone in like that? It would take a level of trust he’d never reached with anyone.

Until now.

The way Brent gently touched him, massaged him, and made him feel seen without being dissected opened something.

Multiple somethings.

Brent took his time. Warmed him up with soft hands, a kiss to the curve of his back, a whispered, “Let me show you.”

Zak rolled onto his back and offered easy access.

After making sure Zak was warmed up and receptive, Brent started slowly, sliding his length against Zak to build rhythm and connection. When he slowly entered him, Zak let out a sound he didn’t recognize—part gasp, part release.

He didn’t expect to enjoy it.

But here, with Brent, it felt less like giving up control and more like letting someone in. It felt raw and real. Like nothing had been taken, only offered.

Their bodies moved in rhythm, breath syncing with the crackle of the fire. Brent leaned in close, whispered something that wasn’t words. Zak’s hands gripped his thighs, pulling him deeper, holding him there.

Again, their eyes met.

It was as if their spirits had connected, heightening the intensity of the physical.

When they came, it wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t wild.

It was quietly complete.

After, Brent stoked the fire with two fresh logs. Zak pulled the blanket around them both.

They lay tangled in each other, heat clinging to skin, the room wrapped in the slow breath of after.

Zak didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

And neither did Brent.

They already understood.

Something had shifted.

And for once, neither of them wanted to shift it back.

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They reached Pylos, King Nestor’s coastal stronghold, near midday. Its pale buildings rose above the curve of the bay.

From the ridge, Machus could see ships clustered along the harbor, their masts rocking against a bright strip of sea. Whitewashed buildings climbed the slope beyond them, broken by courtyards, temple roofs, and smoke drifting from cookfires. After two days of narrow roads, scrub hills, and scattered villages, the city seemed almost impossibly crowded.

Xanthos reined in beside him.

“We should decide who we are before we ride through the gate.”

Machus glanced over. “I thought I was still your young friend who talks too much.”

“That worked in a village. Pylos is ruled by a king who knew your father.”

“Then perhaps I should tell him who I am.”

“Perhaps. But not before we know who else is listening.”

Machus looked again toward the harbor. The journey had already made him cautious in ways Ithaca never had. He noticed the armed men near the city entrance, the merchants gathered around the road, and the sailors who watched new arrivals with more interest than politeness.

“What do you suggest?”

“We enter as travelers from Ithaca. We ask for lodging and listen. If Nestor is receiving men from Troy, we approach him privately.”

“And if he refuses?”

“He will not.”

“You sound certain.”

“Nestor is old, proud, and fond of hearing himself speak. The Ithacan prince searching for his father, Odysseus, will be impossible for him to resist.”

Machus smiled. “You knew him?”

“I met him once. He corrected the way I held a cup.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“Nothing. He just needed to say something. He hadn’t spoken for several breaths.”

They descended toward the city.

The road widened as it approached Pylos, crowded with carts, livestock, and men carrying baskets from the harbor. Xanthos drew his cloak across the sword at his hip, though nothing could disguise the way he moved. Even dusty from travel, he carried the alertness of a warrior among men who had learned to recognize one.

Machus hid his sword as well. Together, however, they were harder to overlook. He felt more exposed.

Their night in the shepherd’s shelter remained with him in every glance and accidental touch. The memory of Xanthos beneath him had not faded with dawn. It had sharpened during the ride, returning whenever Xanthos reached for the wineskin or shifted in the saddle.

They had not spoken about what happened beyond agreeing that it traveled with them.

Machus had expected discomfort afterward. Instead, he felt a new ease between them, complicated by a hunger that had become harder to conceal. When they rode close enough for their knees to brush, his body answered before his mind could remind it that the road was public.

Xanthos noticed everything. He said nothing.

At the gate, a guard asked their names and purpose.

“Xanthos of Ithaca,” the warrior said. “This is Machus.”

The shortened name startled him.

The guard looked from one to the other. “Brothers?”

“No,” they answered together.

The guard’s mouth curved.

“Traveling companions, then.”

Xanthos’s expression did not change. “We seek news from Troy.”

“Half the city seeks news from Troy. The other half sells it.”

“Which half are you?”

“The half standing in the sun while strangers ask questions.”

Xanthos handed him a small coin.

The guard examined it and pointed toward the upper city.

“King Nestor receives veterans at the western hall after sunset. Until then, keep your silver close and your questions closer.”

They found lodging above a tavern near the harbor. The room held two narrow beds, a washbasin, and a window overlooking a lane crowded with sailors.

Machus stood inside while Xanthos inspected the latch, the window, and the wall separating them from the next room.

“You do that everywhere?”

“I prefer knowing how quickly strangers can enter.”

“And how quickly we can leave?”

“That too.”

Machus set down his pack. “There are two beds.”

“I noticed.”

“Were you relieved?”

Xanthos turned.

Machus had intended the question lightly, but the silence changed it.

“No,” Xanthos said.

The answer moved warmly through him.

Machus crossed the room, stopping close enough that he could feel the heat of the man before him.

“Neither was I.”

Xanthos glanced toward the door.

“It is locked,” Machus said.

“Locks discourage honest men.”

“Are there many honest men in Pylos?”

“I have seen no evidence.”

Machus placed a hand against his chest. Beneath the linen, the muscles tightened at once.

“We have hours before sunset.”

“We came for information.”

“We have been riding since dawn.”

Xanthos looked down at the hand resting on him. “You are learning to argue like a prince.”

“I learned from my mother.”

“That concerns me more than it should.”

Machus smiled and rose onto his toes to kiss him.

Xanthos caught his waist before their mouths met, but he did not pull him closer. The restraint in his body was unmistakable.

“What?” Machus asked.

“We are in a city where someone may recognize you.”

“Then we keep the shutters closed.”

“That is not the only concern.”

Machus stepped back. “What is?”

Xanthos’s hands fell from his waist.

“In the shelter, we were alone. There was danger behind us and no certainty ahead. That can make men believe they have stepped outside the rest of their lives.”

“I did not imagine what happened.”

“No.”

“Do you regret it?”

Xanthos’s expression hardened. “Do not ask me that.”

“Why?”

“Because you know the answer.”

Machus held his gaze. “I know you wanted me.”

“I still want you.”

“Then what has changed?”

“We reached Pylos.”

The city sounds rose through the shuttered window: wheels against stone, men calling from the street, a woman laughing somewhere below.

Machus understood before Xanthos said more.

“Here I am a prince again.”

“You never stopped being one.”

“I did not feel like one with you.”

“That does not mean the duties vanished.”

Machus turned away and went to the basin. The water in the clay pitcher was still cool from the shaded room. He poured some into the bowl, washed the dust from his hands, and splashed the rest over his face.

“What duties concern you at this exact moment?”

Xanthos did not answer.

Machus looked back. “Marriage?”

“Eventually.”

“Children?”

“Yes.”

“I have heard this before.”

“You heard it beside a fire when the future was still distant.”

“It is not closer because we crossed a city gate.”

“No. But Nestor may know your father lives. If we find Odysseus, you return to Ithaca with a king beside you and expectations waiting.”

Machus faced him fully.

“And you think I will forget you?”

“I think neither of us knows what the return will require.”

“You are preparing to leave.”

“I am preparing not to become something you must hide and resent.”

“That is not your decision alone.”

“No,” Xanthos said. “It is not.”

The calmness of his answer angered Machus more than an argument would have.

“Then stop speaking as though it is.”

Xanthos looked toward the floor, then back at him.

“You are right.”

Machus had prepared himself to keep fighting. The concession left him without the next line.

Xanthos crossed the room and stopped a few feet away.

“I do not regret the shelter. I do not regret touching you, kissing you, or waking with you against me. But I have spent years watching men promise things in the field that could not survive the road home.”

“I am not one of those men.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Xanthos’s voice softened. “That is why I am frightened.”

The admission reached Machus more deeply than reassurance could have.

He stepped closer.

“Of me?”

“Of wanting a life I have never permitted myself to imagine.”

Machus touched the side of his face.

“Then imagine it.”

Xanthos leaned into the touch for only a moment before closing his hand around Machus’s wrist.

“I am trying.”

They did not use either bed that afternoon.

They washed, changed their tunics, and went into the city together.

Pylos wore the scars of war differently from Ithaca. Veterans stood outside taverns with missing fingers, clouded eyes, and limps too old to improve. Women waited near the harbor whenever ships entered, searching faces before cargo had been unloaded. Boys followed soldiers through the streets, asking for tales of Troy while widows turned away.

Machus had grown up with the war as absence.

Here, it had returned in pieces.

They spent the afternoon listening. A ship from Crete had brought men who claimed that Odysseus survived the fall of Troy. Another sailor insisted Poseidon had shattered his fleet. Someone else swore the king lived with a sorceress on an island no map recorded.

Each rumor contradicted the last.

Xanthos dismissed most before the speaker finished.

“How do you know?” Machus asked after they left a wine merchant who claimed Odysseus commanded pirates in the south.

“His details changed when I asked the same question twice.”

“You do that often.”

“Men remember truth. They invent around lies.”

“What if the truth is strange?”

“Then they remember it even more clearly.”

At sunset, they climbed to the western hall.

Nestor received veterans in a long chamber open to the sea. Lamps burned along the walls, and servants carried wine between benches crowded with soldiers, sailors, messengers, and men hoping their stories might earn silver.

The old king sat at the far end beneath a painted scene of ships sailing toward Troy. Age had narrowed his shoulders but not diminished his presence. His white beard reached his chest, and he listened to each speaker with his head tilted as though weighing not only the words but the man delivering them.

Xanthos and Machus waited near a column.

“You were right,” Machus whispered. “He does like to hear himself speak.”

Nestor had interrupted a soldier’s account to explain how the retreat should have been organized.

“He has improved,” Xanthos murmured. “He once spoke through an entire meal.”

A servant approached.

“Names?”

“Xanthos of Ithaca.”

The man’s eyes moved to Machus.

“Machus.”

“Purpose?”

Machus answered before Xanthos could. “I seek news of Odysseus.”

The servant’s expression sharpened.

“Many do.”

“I have greater cause than most.”

Xanthos looked at him but did not interfere.

The servant went to Nestor and bent close to speak. The old king’s gaze crossed the hall and settled on Machus.

Recognition came slowly.

Nestor stood.

The conversations around him faltered.

“Telemachus?”

The formal name traveled through the chamber.

Machus felt every face turn.

Xanthos moved closer without touching him.

Nestor descended the two steps from his seat and came forward. Up close, his eyes were clearer than Machus expected.

“You have your father’s brow,” the old king said.

“I am told I have his grip.”

Nestor laughed, and the tension in the hall eased.

“Odysseus said that before you had teeth.”

“So I have heard.”

Nestor placed both hands on his shoulders.

“You should not have entered under another name.”

“I did not know who might be listening.”

The old king glanced toward Xanthos.

“And this caution came from him?”

“In part.”

Nestor studied the warrior. “You are the fisherman’s son Odysseus marked for training.”

Xanthos inclined his head. “You remember me.”

“I remember everyone Odysseus found interesting. It was safer.”

Nestor led them through a side passage into a smaller chamber overlooking the harbor. Only one servant followed, carrying wine and bread.

Once the door closed, the old king’s manner changed. The public warmth remained, but something heavier entered his face.

“You have come for your father.”

“Yes.”

Nestor gestured for them to sit.

“I saw him after Troy fell. We argued.”

“About what?”

“Which god to offend first.”

Machus waited.

Nestor sighed. “Menelaus wanted us to remain until every sacrifice had been completed. Your father believed delay would invite more trouble. He sailed before the others.”

“And lived?”

“He survived the first storms. A vessel from his fleet reached the mainland months later. The men claimed Poseidon scattered the ships near Malea.”

“Did they see my father’s ship sink?”

“No.”

“Then he may still live.”

“He may.”

The answer was neither hope nor refusal.

Nestor drank from his cup.

“Three weeks ago, a Phoenician captain arrived here. He carried a sailor who had been stranded on Cythera. The sailor spoke of a dark-haired king traveling under another name, clever enough to negotiate safe passage from men who intended to rob him.”

“Odysseus.”

“Perhaps.”

“Where did he go?”

“South toward Crete.”

Machus looked at Xanthos. The warrior’s face revealed little, but his eyes had sharpened.

“Who is the sailor?” Xanthos asked.

“He left yesterday with a merchant caravan bound for Methone.”

“Then we follow.”

Nestor raised one hand.

“You have ridden hard to reach me. Stay tonight. I will give you horses at dawn and letters that may open doors.”

“We already have horses,” Machus said.

“You have animals chosen by a soldier who values survival over speed.”

Xanthos did not deny it.

Nestor smiled faintly. “Take mine.”

They accepted a room in the palace.

It was larger than the lodging below, with painted walls, a wide bed, and a bath chamber open to the night through a screened window. Servants brought food, clean linen, and heated water before withdrawing.

Machus stood beside the bath while Xanthos barred the outer door.

“You still inspect every room.”

“I expect to die old from habits you find tedious.”

Machus loosened his belt.

“I hope you die very old.”

Xanthos turned.

The words had come without planning, but Machus did not take them back.

He let the tunic fall from his shoulders and stepped into the bath.

The stone basin was deep enough for two men. Steam rose around him, carrying the scent of olive oil and crushed herbs. After days of cold streams and hurried washing, the heat reached into every muscle.

Xanthos remained beside the door.

Machus leaned back against the basin.

“Are you joining me?”

“We came here to learn about your father.”

“We learned.”

“We leave at dawn.”

“Then sleep will be useful eventually.”

Xanthos’s mouth moved at one corner.

“You are relentless.”

“You said I talk too much.”

“I underestimated the danger.”

He undressed.

Machus watched openly this time.

Xanthos did not pretend not to notice. He removed his tunic, loosened the wrap at his waist, and stepped into the water opposite him.

The wound along his left side had begun to close. Machus reached for it at once.

“Does it hurt?”

“Less than yesterday.”

“Turn.”

“Tel.”

“Turn.”

Xanthos obeyed, muttering something about princes who issued orders after one night in the field.

Machus washed the cut carefully. When he finished, his hand remained against Xanthos’s side.

The older scars were easier to see in the lamplight. The pale line along his right ribs. The dark mark beneath his collarbone. A narrow scar across one shoulder.

“Tell me about this one.”

Xanthos looked down at the scar near his ribs.

“Raiders from Cephalonia. I was twenty.”

“And this?”

“A spear in a harbor fight.”

Machus traced the mark below his collarbone.

“That is not a scar.”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“A mark I was born with.”

Machus touched it with his lips.

Xanthos’s breathing changed.

“What about the eyebrow?”

“A shield edge.”

“You have been fortunate.”

“I have been trained.”

“And fortunate.”

“Yes.”

Machus moved behind him and poured water through his amber hair. Darkened by the bath, it looked like bronze until the lamp caught the lighter ends.

He worked oil into the strands, untangling them with his fingers.

Xanthos sat unusually still.

“No one has done this for you?”

“My mother, when I was a boy.”

“No one since?”

“I have been capable of washing my own hair.”

“That was not my question.”

Xanthos turned enough to look at him.

“No.”

Machus rinsed the oil away.

“I like being the first.”

“You will not be the first in everything.”

“I know.”

The reminder could have unsettled him. Instead, he thought of the years Xanthos had lived before they found each other and felt curiosity rather than jealousy.

“What did they do for you?”

“Who?”

“The men in the field.”

Xanthos’s gaze became cautious. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I want to know what you liked.”

“That is not the same question.”

“No. It is more useful.”

A low laugh escaped him.

“Some men wanted release and nothing more. Some wanted to be held. A few wanted to forget where they were.”

“And you?”

“I wanted silence.”

Machus frowned. “During sex?”

“After.”

“That sounds disappointing.”

“It was what I needed then.”

Machus placed his hands on Xanthos’s shoulders and pressed his thumbs into the tight muscle beside his neck.

“What do you need now?”

Xanthos closed his eyes.

“This.”

Machus continued slowly, working the tension from his shoulders and back. He had expected desire to rise quickly between them. Instead, something gentler settled into the bath.

Xanthos allowed himself to be cared for.

That trust affected Machus more than the sight of his body had from the palace balcony. Strength was easy to admire. Surrender was rarer.

He kissed the back of Xanthos’s neck.

The warrior turned.

Their mouths met without urgency. The kiss deepened gradually, shaped by the heat of the water and the quiet of the room. Xanthos drew Machus onto his lap, one hand sliding along his back while the other settled at his hip.

Machus felt the lion stir beneath him.

He smiled against Xanthos’s mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You have named it.”

Machus pulled back. “How did you know?”

“You looked amused.”

“I was not amused.”

“You were pleased with yourself.”

Machus ran a hand down his chest.

“I call it the lion.”

Xanthos’s eyebrows rose.

“Do you object?”

“No.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“I am considering whether I should roar.”

Machus laughed, and Xanthos kissed him again before the sound ended.

Their playfulness faded as want took its place.

Machus slid lower, kissing the center of Xanthos’s chest and the hard line of his stomach. The warrior leaned back against the basin, watching him.

This time Machus knew more.

He knew how Xanthos’s breath changed before the man made a sound. He knew the muscles in his abdomen tightened when Machus kissed the inside of his thigh. He knew confidence pleased him but patience undid him.

Machus took his time.

He explored with his mouth and hands until Xanthos’s control began to fracture. The warrior’s head fell back against the stone, his fingers closing in Machus’s wet hair.

“Tel.”

The private name had become a language of its own.

Machus looked up. “Tell me what you want.”

Xanthos’s eyes opened.

“You.”

“You have me.”

“All of you.”

The words struck deeper than desire.

Machus rose and kissed him.

When they left the bath, neither reached for a tunic. They dried one another with linen, pausing often enough that the task became another form of foreplay. Xanthos kissed the water from Machus’s shoulder. Machus followed the pale scar along his ribs with his mouth.

By the time they reached the bed, both were hard and breathless.

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Forest Service Trail
Above Lake Arrowhead, California

Zak adjusted the straps on his pack, inhaled deeply, and smiled into the silence.

Pine, dirt, sun-warmed bark—he could name the layers by scent. Most people never slowed down long enough to notice. Out here, you had to.

That was the point.

He wasn’t escaping anything.

He didn’t need to.

Solitude wasn’t loneliness. It was clarity. Peace of mind. Freedom to breathe without the weight of other people’s noise.

His ranger cabin sat about a mile up—a modest, solar-powered structure tucked into a sunny meadow just off a lesser-known trail. Three nights on, four off. It was a rhythm that suited him. Mornings started with fire-risk reports, then trail patrols, and sometimes a chainsaw when a tree dropped in the wrong place.

Evenings?

A book, a whiskey, maybe a fire.

Occasionally a visitor, but never a guest he didn’t want.

The rest of the world faded up here.

And Zak didn’t miss it.

He hadn’t always lived this way. Years ago, he’d done the city thing—first in San Diego, then briefly in L.A. He’d worked in environmental compliance, sat in traffic more than he did meetings, wore a collared shirt five days a week, and got far too good at smiling without meaning it.

The work paid well. The dating pool was wide.

And he was miserable.

It took a breakup and a blown weekend camping trip to make him realize what he really needed: fewer expectations, and more sky. He started volunteering for trail cleanups, took a leave of absence, then never went back.

Ranger life wasn’t some romantic fantasy. It was hard work, low pay, long hours.

But it was real.

Grounded.

And it fit.

He wasn’t running from city life. He’d just… opted out.

Zak had had relationships. Hookups. Nights that started with sweat and ended with tangled limbs and a shared toothbrush. He liked connection. Enjoyed bodies. He welcomed anyone who knew what they wanted, without the neediness.

He’d been with local men, tourists—who were plentiful—and even a few couples. He enjoyed the attention and gave as much as he got.

But he didn’t need anyone to complete him.

Never had.

When he was with someone, he was all in. Present. Honest. But when it ended—because it always did—he packed his bag, hiked home, and kept going.

That wasn’t cold. It was just real.

He knew himself well enough to know what wasn’t working. No harm, no foul. The next experience awaited.

Still, he wouldn’t lie. There were nights when a little company felt less like distraction and more like relief.

Not because he was lonely.

Because now and then, even grounded men liked to be held.

Zak crested a familiar bend and paused.

Something moved ahead, out of place.

A man.

Shirtless.

Flushed from the effort.

Not a local.

Zak lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey there,” he called, easy and calm. “You look a little off trail.”

The guy—broad shoulders, muscular chest, tousled brown hair, and legs that belonged in an ad for hiking shorts—broke into a relieved grin.

“Story of my life,” he said, half-laughing.

They met, eyes locking briefly.

The lost hiker was stunning, yeah—but that wasn’t what got Zak’s attention. It was something else. A tension beneath the smile. A flicker of something unspoken.

“Trail’s confusing near the ridge,” Zak said. “Most folks miss the loop marker. You’re not far off the trail, but you look like you could use a breather—and the light’s starting to shift.”

The man ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t prepared for a long hike. I was following the viewpoint signs. Then I wasn’t.”

Zak nodded, making sense of the lack of shirt and water, already slipping into ranger mode. “I’ve got a cabin just up ahead. Water. Bench. A trail map so you don’t rely on guesswork.”

The guy chuckled. “That sounds excellent.”

“I’m Zak.”

“Brent.”

Zak repeated it silently.

Fitting.

Strong, simple. A name with weight.

They shook hands. Brent’s grip was confident—no pretense, just steady.

“I’m staying at Creekside Lodge,” Brent added. “Just got in today.”

Zak smiled. “Good spot. Great people. I know the owners—Jake, Dante, and Mark.”

“Dante checked me in,” Brent said. “Very… friendly.”

Zak laughed. “Yeah, he doesn’t do aloof.”

They walked side by side for a bit. Brent had a natural stride, clearly fit, but slightly off-balance—like he hadn’t found his footing yet.

“Taking a break from city life?” Zak asked, not in a nosy way, just a curious one.

Brent hesitated. “Something like that. Needed a reset.”

Zak nodded. “Creekside Lodge is good for that. I’ve seen more people find what they didn’t know they were looking for there than anywhere else. My home is down-creek from the lodge.”

Brent shot him a side glance. “Are you saying I’m supposed to have an epiphany?”

“I’m saying,” Zak replied, “you already might’ve taken the right detour.”

Brent smiled.

Quiet, but real.

Zak felt something in that smile, like the forest had opened its arms and let someone new in.

And for once, Zak didn’t mind the company.

Chapter 3 will post Saturday morning.

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Xanthos woke him with two fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder.

“Tel.”

Telemachus opened his eyes to darkness and the faint orange glow of the dying fire. For one disorienting moment, he expected the painted ceiling of his chamber above him. Instead, stars filled the opening beyond the rocks, and Xanthos crouched beside his blanket with his sword resting across one thigh.

“Your watch,” he said.

Telemachus pushed himself upright. “Did anything happen?”

“A fox argued with me over the remains of our supper.”

“Who won?”

“The fox remains hopeful.”

Xanthos stood and rolled one shoulder. Fatigue showed in the slower way he moved, though he seemed determined not to admit it. Telemachus pulled on his sandals and reached for his cloak.

“What should I listen for?”

“Anything that does not belong.”

“That is not especially helpful.”

“You know what the wind sounds like. You know the fire. After a while, you will know the small animals moving through the brush. Listen for something that breaks the pattern.”

“And if I hear it?”

“Wake me before attempting to become a hero.”

Xanthos lowered himself onto the blanket Telemachus had left warm. The intimacy of the exchange unsettled him more than it should have. Only hours earlier, Xanthos had been the distant warrior Telemachus watched from a palace balcony. Now he was lying where Telemachus had slept, his head resting near the shallow impression left in the folded cloak.

“Do you always give so many orders?” Telemachus asked.

“When responsible for someone who thinks sore feet are a state secret.”

“I told you they were nothing.”

“And I was right not to believe you.”

Xanthos turned onto his side, facing the fire. His eyes were already closed.

Telemachus carried his sword to the edge of the light and sat where Xanthos had kept watch. The night felt larger from that position. Darkness spread beyond the rocks and low brush, concealing the road they had traveled and everything that might be moving toward them.

He tried to identify the sounds. Wind through dry grass. The faint pop of resin in the fire. Something small scratching beneath a stone.

Behind him, Xanthos breathed slowly and evenly.

Telemachus glanced back.

The warrior had drawn the blanket to his waist. His tunic had ridden up where he lay, exposing a strip of bronzed skin above his belt. One arm rested across the ground, palm open, the roughened fingers loose in sleep.

He looked younger with his face unguarded.

Not young, exactly. The scar through his eyebrow remained, and nothing could soften the breadth of the body beneath the tunic. But without the measured look he gave every road, doorway, and stranger, he seemed less like Ithaca’s finest warrior and more like a man who had spent half his life sleeping lightly.

Telemachus turned back toward the darkness before Xanthos could wake and catch him staring again.

He thought of the question left unanswered between them.

Who was the man you wanted?

He had not lied when he said the man never knew. But the answer had changed during the hours beside the fire. Until that day, wanting Xanthos had been a private indulgence attached to glimpses from a balcony. He had admired the warrior’s body because distance made admiration safe.

Now Xanthos had touched his ankle, called him Tel, and spoken to him of things no one else had ever named.

Distance no longer protected either of them.

A sound came from the road.

Telemachus straightened.

It was not the wind. He heard the careful displacement of loose stone, followed by silence. Whoever—or whatever—had made it was trying not to be heard.

His first instinct was to call Xanthos’s name. Pride stopped him.

He rose quietly and drew his sword.

Another scrape came from beyond the firelight. Telemachus shifted his feet as he had been taught, keeping the blade low enough not to catch the light. His mouth had gone dry, but his hands remained steady.

A dark shape moved behind the brush.

Telemachus stepped forward.

Something burst from the shadows.

He raised the sword with both hands as a goat scrambled onto the path, stared at him with startled yellow eyes, and bounded away through the scrub.

Behind him, Xanthos laughed.

Telemachus spun around.

The warrior had propped himself on one elbow, his eyes bright despite the hour.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to see Ithaca nearly lose its prince to a goat.”

“I knew it was a goat.”

“Of course.”

“I was making certain.”

“Very thorough.”

Telemachus lowered the sword. “Go back to sleep.”

Xanthos settled down again, still smiling. “Wake me if its army arrives.”

By dawn, Telemachus had forgiven neither the goat nor Xanthos.

They ate cold barley cakes while the sky lightened over the hills. Xanthos inspected Telemachus’s heels before allowing him to put on his sandals, then adjusted the straps so they sat differently against the skin.

Telemachus endured it without protest.

“You learn quickly,” Xanthos said.

“I am deciding which battles matter.”

“That may be the first useful lesson you have learned on this journey.”

“The first?”

“You drew a sword on livestock.”

Telemachus threw the remainder of his barley cake at him.

Xanthos caught it against his chest and ate it.

They continued toward the village as the sun rose. The road widened near cultivated fields, where olive trees stood in careful rows and workers looked up from stone walls to watch them pass.

Xanthos carried himself differently once other travelers appeared. His cloak covered his sword, and the easy conversation of the camp disappeared beneath a watchful reserve. He walked half a step behind Telemachus at first, then drew even with him when a cart approached from the opposite direction.

“You are not to use my title,” Telemachus said.

“I know.”

“What am I, then?”

“A young man traveling with someone wiser.”

“That will convince no one.”

“It convinced your mother.”

Telemachus glanced at him. “She said we could pass as brothers.”

“She also said we should invent something better.”

“Have you?”

Xanthos considered the question while the cart rolled past them.

“We are returning to Pylos after visiting family on Ithaca.”

“What kind of family?”

“Distant.”

“How are we related?”

“We are not.”

“That story seems poorly developed.”

“Most believable stories are. Too much detail sounds rehearsed.”

Telemachus looked ahead. “And if someone asks why we travel alone?”

“I tell them you talk too much and no one else would come.”

Machus laughed before he could stop himself.

Xanthos looked toward him, and the severity of the road briefly left his face.

The village occupied a low rise overlooking a narrow bay. Fishing boats crowded the water below, while traders had set up awnings around a central well. The air smelled of bread, fish, oil, and animals penned too close together.

Xanthos led him first to a stable, where they purchased two sturdy horses rather than the finer animals Telemachus would have chosen. His was a gray mare with an unimpressed expression. Xanthos selected a dark bay gelding whose left ear bore an old notch.

“You said walking helped us blend in,” Machus said.

“Walking also takes time. We have learned the road ahead is open.”

“When did we learn that?”

“While you were deciding whether the baker’s daughter was watching you.”

“She was watching you.”

“She was watching our silver.”

At the market, they bought bread, cheese, dried figs, and enough grain for the horses. Xanthos asked questions without appearing to ask them, speaking first about road conditions and then about ships arriving from the east.

An elderly seller remembered three soldiers who had passed through four days earlier. They claimed to have returned from Troy after their commander’s ship was damaged near Cythera. One of them had spoken of men scattered across the islands and of a king whose fate remained uncertain.

“Which king?” Machus asked too quickly.

The seller looked at him more carefully.

Xanthos placed a hand on Machus’s shoulder, casual and possessive enough to redirect the man’s attention.

“My young friend collects tales of war,” he said. “He believes every missing king is waiting to be found.”

The seller laughed. “At his age, I believed the same. The soldier spoke of Odysseus, though he had no proof. Said a Spartan sailor heard the king survived Troy but offended a god on the journey home.”

“Where were the soldiers going?” Xanthos asked.

“Pylos. They hoped Nestor would pay for news.”

Xanthos thanked the man and purchased twice the cheese they needed.

They left the market without speaking until the village had fallen behind them.

“Young friend?” Machus said.

“It was the first thing that came to mind.”

“Not brother?”

“You objected to the story.”

“I object to being handled like a boy.”

Xanthos reined in his horse and looked at him.

“I touched your shoulder because you were one question away from announcing yourself as the son of Odysseus.”

“I wanted an answer.”

“And nearly told a village full of strangers exactly where Odysseus’s heir is traveling.”

Machus felt heat rise in his face. “You could have warned me.”

“I did.”

“When?”

“At the palace. On the ship. On the road. Your mother warned you before I did.”

“I am not accustomed to hiding who I am.”

“That is why you are poor at it.”

Machus turned the mare away and urged her forward.

Xanthos followed.

For the next mile, the only sounds between them were hooves against packed earth and the faint creak of leather.

Machus knew Xanthos was right. That made the correction no easier to accept.

At last, Xanthos rode alongside him.

“Tel.”

Machus kept his eyes on the road.

“I did not touch you to make you feel like a child.”

“You did it to stop me from speaking.”

“Yes.”

“And it worked.”

“Yes.”

Machus looked at him. “You could at least pretend to regret it.”

“I regret embarrassing you.”

The apology was more direct than he expected.

Xanthos continued, “I do not regret keeping your identity from men we do not know.”

Machus studied the road again. “That sounds like another answer without choosing a side.”

“No. I chose one. I am sorry I embarrassed you. I would do it again.”

Despite himself, Machus smiled.

Xanthos saw it. “Does that mean I am forgiven?”

“It means I have decided not to ride you into a ditch.”

“A generous prince.”

“Young friend.”

Xanthos’s laugh followed them down the road.

They rode until the sun stood high, then stopped beside a spring shaded by trees. The horses drank while the men ate bread and cheese near the water.

Formality had already begun to fall away. Xanthos no longer addressed him as Prince, and Machus found himself asking questions he would never have asked inside the palace.

“Why did you never marry?”

Xanthos tore a piece of bread between his fingers. “We have known one another for barely two days.”

“You answered more personal questions last night.”

“Darkness encourages poor judgment.”

“It will be dark again.”

Xanthos looked toward him with a trace of amusement. “The expectation was always there. My mother wanted grandchildren. The captain believed marriage would make me more settled.”

“Would it have?”

“No.”

“Because you prefer men?”

“Not only men.”

The answer surprised Machus.

Xanthos continued before he could ask. “I have wanted women. I have taken comfort with them. I simply never met one whose life I was willing to bind to mine.”

“But you have been with more men.”

“In the field, yes.”

Machus looked down at the bread in his hands. “Because they were there.”

“Because they understood what the field required.”

“And afterward?”

“Afterward, we returned to the lives waiting for us.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“At times.”

Machus turned the bread between his fingers. “Could loneliness make a man mistake comfort for something more?”

Xanthos considered the question before answering.

“For a night,” he said.

“Did that ever trouble you?”

“Not when both men understood what it was.”

Machus watched sunlight move across the spring.

“What if one wanted more?”

“Then the other had a duty to be honest.”

The answer seemed meant for more than the question.

Before Machus could decide whether to pursue it, Xanthos rose and walked toward the horses.

“We should continue.”

The road narrowed after midday and climbed through rocky country. Low trees gave way to exposed ridges where the sea appeared in flashes to the west.

Xanthos rode ahead through the tightest passages, studying the ground as much as the path before them. Machus had begun to recognize the changes in him: the way his shoulders settled when he sensed no danger, and the stillness that came over him when something did not fit.

Near sunset, Xanthos raised one hand.

Machus stopped the mare.

“What is it?”

Xanthos looked toward the bend ahead. “A cart passed recently.”

“That is not unusual.”

“It stopped there.”

Machus followed his gaze. The road curved between a steep rock face and a drop thick with scrub. Broken stalks marked the edge where wheels had turned.

“Perhaps the driver stopped to pee.”

“Perhaps.”

Xanthos dismounted and checked the ground. His fingers touched a dark patch near one wheel track.

“Blood?” Machus asked.

“Wine.”

“That is better.”

“Not for the merchant who lost it.”

Xanthos returned to his horse but did not mount.

“We walk from here.”

Machus drew his sword.

“Not yet,” Xanthos said.

“You think someone is waiting.”

“I think we should not tell them we know.”

They led the horses around the bend.

The abandoned cart stood sideways across the road. One wheel had been removed, and a broken jar lay in the dirt beneath it. Wine stained the ground.

No merchant was visible.

Xanthos moved closer to Machus.

“Stay behind me.”

“You said I was not to be kept in a box.”

“This is not a lesson.”

A stone struck the road behind them.

Both horses startled. Before Machus could steady his mare, two men emerged from the rocks above while a third stepped from behind the cart.

They were poorly armed but not harmless. One carried a short spear, another a curved knife, and the third held a club darkened from use.

“Leave the horses,” the man with the spear said. “Your weapons too.”

Xanthos handed Machus the reins of his gelding.

“Take both horses back around the bend.”

“I am not leaving you.”

“You are not helping if I must watch you and them.”

The man with the club laughed. “Listen to your master, boy.”

Machus drew his sword.

“I am not a boy.”

The club came toward him first.

Machus had trained in the courtyard against guards who knew when to stop. The man before him did not. There was no polished exchange, no clean beginning. One moment the weapon was raised, and the next it cut through the air toward his head.

Machus moved aside and felt the club brush his shoulder. He struck with the flat of his blade, catching the man across the forearm. Bone cracked. The club fell.

The cry drew the second attacker.

Xanthos moved between them before Machus saw the knife. He caught the man’s wrist, drove an elbow into his throat, and twisted until the knife dropped. The third thrust the spear.

Xanthos turned, but not quickly enough.

The point cut across his side.

Machus saw blood.

Something inside him sharpened.

The spearman pulled back for another thrust. Machus stepped inside the reach of the weapon and struck the shaft with his sword. The wood split. Before the attacker could recover, Machus drove his shoulder into the man’s chest and sent him backward over the remains of the cart.

Xanthos had the knife-wielder on the ground, one knee pressing between his shoulders.

The man with the broken arm ran.

The spearman scrambled after him, abandoning the shattered weapon. Xanthos released the third with a warning that sent him stumbling down the road in the opposite direction.

Silence returned almost as quickly as the violence had begun.

Machus turned to Xanthos.

Blood ran from a cut along his left side.

“You are hurt.”

“It is shallow.”

Machus dropped his sword and pulled at the knot of Xanthos’s belt.

Xanthos caught his hands. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at it.”

“Not in the middle of the road.”

“You bled because you stepped in front of me.”

“I bled because I was slow.”

“You were protecting me.”

“Yes.”

The simple answer made anger and fear collide in Machus’s chest.

“You told me to leave.”

“I told you to move the horses.”

“You expected me to run.”

“I expected you to survive.”

“Even if protecting me got you killed?”

Xanthos’s grip tightened around his wrists.

“That is not the same calculation.”

“It is to me.”

Neither moved.

Machus realized how close they stood. Xanthos’s breath was quick from the fight, his skin damp, his amber hair disordered across his forehead. Blood marked one side of his tunic.

The warrior searched his face.

“Pick up your sword, Tel.”

The softness of the name was at odds with the command.

Machus obeyed.

They found the merchant bound and gagged in the brush below the road. His injuries were minor, though the loss of wine distressed him nearly as much as the attack. In gratitude for his release, he confirmed what they had heard in the village: returning soldiers were gathering at Pylos, and Nestor had begun receiving anyone with news from Troy.

The merchant also warned them not to remain on the road after dark. He knew of a shepherd’s shelter less than an hour east, near a stream and marked by two cypress trees.

Xanthos wanted to escort him back toward the village.

The merchant refused. His cart could be repaired once he retrieved help, and he insisted the three attackers would not return while armed men remained nearby.

Machus suspected he was more concerned about leaving his surviving jars unattended.

They continued east.

Xanthos mounted without complaint, but his face had lost color. Machus watched him closely until the warrior noticed.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me as though I am about to fall from the horse.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“You are a poor liar.”

“And you became an expert after one day on the road?”

“I had an instructive teacher.”

Xanthos almost smiled.

They reached the shelter as the first light faded. It was little more than a stone hut built against a hillside, with a roof of timber and packed earth. The stream ran behind it, cold and clear.

Inside, there was room for the two of them and a small hearth. The shepherd who used it had left dry wood stacked against one wall.

Machus lit the fire while Xanthos tended to the horses.

When he returned, Machus pointed to the ground near the flames.

“Sit.”

Xanthos removed his sword. “You have become commanding.”

“I learned from a man who mistakes bleeding for an inconvenience.”

“It remains an inconvenience.”

“Remove your tunic.”

Xanthos looked at him.

Machus’s confidence wavered but did not break.

“I need to clean the wound.”

“You have never cleaned a sword cut.”

“I have seen physicians do it.”

“From across a room?”

“Remove it, or I will cut it off.”

“That would leave me with one tunic.”

“You should have packed more.”

Xanthos’s mouth moved at one corner. He loosened his belt and pulled the garment over his head.

Machus had seen him shirtless many times from the balcony, but distance had reduced him to shape and movement. Up close, his body carried the record of his life.

The scar through his eyebrow was only the first. A dark line crossed beneath his collarbone. A pale scar ran along his right ribs. Older marks touched one shoulder and the hard plane of his abdomen. The newest wound opened red across his left side, shallow as Xanthos had claimed but long enough to require care.

Machus knelt beside him with a bowl of water and clean cloth.

“This will hurt.”

“I have survived worse.”

“That was not permission to pretend it does not.”

He pressed the wet cloth to the cut. Thankfully, the bleeding had stopped.

Xanthos’s abdomen tightened, but he made no sound.

Machus cleaned the blood away slowly. His fingers moved over warm skin. Xanthos watched him without speaking.

“You could have died,” Machus said.

“Not from that man.”

“You cannot know where a blade will land.”

“I saw the angle.”

“You saw it after stepping in front of me.”

Xanthos breathed out through his nose. “Tel.”

“No. You do not get to quiet me because the danger has passed.”

“I am not trying to quiet you.”

“Then explain why your life matters less than mine.”

Xanthos’s expression changed.

“It does not matter less.”

“You said it was not the same calculation.”

“It is not.”

“Because I am a prince?”

“Because you are eighteen. Because you have barely begun to understand the life waiting for you. Because your mother entrusted you to me.”

Machus set the cloth aside. “Only because she entrusted me to you?”

Xanthos looked toward the fire.

Machus waited.

“No,” Xanthos said.

The word was quiet enough that Machus nearly missed it.

He reached for the salve. “Then why?”

Xanthos turned back to him. “You know why.”

Machus held his gaze. “I know you were ordered to protect me.”

“That is not what I mean.”

The room seemed to narrow around them.

Machus spread salve along the edge of the wound, more gently now. “Last night, you asked who I wanted.”

Xanthos’s expression sharpened. “Yes.”

“I said he never knew.”

Xanthos remained still beneath his hands.

“That was true when I left Ithaca,” Machus continued. “I do not think it is true anymore.”

Xanthos’s eyes met his.

Machus had imagined that moment while watching the road and again while riding behind him. In each imagining, he had been brave and certain. Now he could feel his heart striking against his ribs.

“Tell me to stop,” Machus said.

Xanthos’s voice was rougher than before. “You have not done anything.”

Machus let his palm rest flat against the warrior’s side, just above the wound. “I am about to.”

Xanthos’s gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. “That would be unwise.”

“My father was brilliant and unwise at the same time.”

A surprised laugh escaped Xanthos, but it did not break the tension.

“You remember everything I say?” he asked.

“When it concerns my father.”

“And when it concerns men holding each other through the night?”

“Especially then.”

Xanthos lifted one hand and touched the side of Machus’s face. His fingers were callused, but the touch was careful.

“You are not a soldier seeking comfort before battle.”

“No.”

“And I am not a young man who can pretend this means nothing when the road ends.”

Machus leaned into his hand.

“I do not want it to mean nothing.”

The restraint left Xanthos’s face by degrees. It did not disappear; it changed into something more exposed.

“If I kiss you,” he said, “I will not do it as your guard.”

“Then kiss me as Xanthos.”

The warrior’s thumb moved once across Machus’s cheek.

“Tel.”

It sounded less like a warning than surrender.

Machus closed the distance between them.

Their first kiss was not tentative. It carried too many years of Machus looking from afar and too many hours of Xanthos refusing to name what had grown between them. Xanthos caught the back of his neck and drew him closer, his mouth firm and warm.

Machus had wondered whether he would know what to do.

His body knew before thought could interfere.

He shifted between Xanthos’s knees and pressed closer, careful of the wound but unable to keep space between them. Xanthos kissed him again, slower this time, his mouth opening beneath Machus’s.

The first sound Machus made embarrassed him until Xanthos answered with one of his own.

That changed everything.

Machus gripped the warrior’s shoulders. They were as solid as he had imagined, but the skin beneath his hands was warm and alive, not the unreachable perfection he had watched from a balcony.

Xanthos broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Machus’s.

“Tell me this is what you want.”

“It is.”

“You are certain?”

Machus pulled back enough to look into his eyes.

“I have spent years being certain of what I wanted and believing I could never have it.”

“That is not the same as being ready for me.”

“No,” Machus said. “Two days beside you made me ready for you.”

“Do not say things you cannot take back.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Because tomorrow, I will still be ten years older. I will still answer to your mother. You will still be the heir to Ithaca.”

“And I will still want you.”

Xanthos searched his face, then kissed him again.

This time, there was no restraint.

Machus felt the strength Xanthos had kept controlled since they left the palace. One arm circled his waist and pulled him close, while the other hand slid into his hair. Their bodies met from chest to thigh.

The hardness between them made Machus gasp.

Xanthos stopped.

“Too much?”

“No.”

“You have never—”

“No.”

The word came with more uncertainty than Machus intended.

Xanthos’s expression softened. “We do not have to do everything tonight.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Machus looked down between them, then back at him. “I know I want to see you.”

“You have seen me.”

“Not like this.”

Xanthos considered him for another moment before reaching for the knot at his waist.

Machus watched the fighting wrap loosen and fall away.

The glimpses from the courtyard had not prepared him for the reality. Xanthos stood before him without embarrassment, powerfully built in every sense, his arousal unmistakable.

Machus stared.

Xanthos’s mouth curved slightly. “You are allowed to breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Not well.”

Machus looked up. “You knew I watched you.”

“I suspected.”

“Why did you never say anything?”

“You were the prince watching from a balcony. I was a guard in the courtyard.”

“And now?”

“Now you are kneeling between my knees in a shepherd’s hut.”

Machus smiled. “Boundaries move.”

“They appear to have fled.”

Xanthos reached for the clasp of Machus’s tunic, then paused and looked at Machus questioningly.

That look undid him more than confidence would have.

Machus nodded.

Xanthos opened the tunic and pushed it from his shoulders. His gaze moved across Machus’s chest and abdomen with an intensity that made him feel both exposed and admired.

“You look surprised,” Machus said.

“I knew you trained.”

“But?”

“I did not know how well.”

Machus had the leaner body of a swimmer and runner, his strength defined rather than heavy. Under Xanthos’s attention, he felt the difference between them without feeling lesser.

The warrior placed one hand against his chest.

“Your heart is trying to escape.”

“It has had an unusual day.”

Xanthos bent and kissed the center of his chest.

Machus’s breath caught.

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Telemachus entered the world on a night when the sea would not be quiet.

Wind struck the palace walls and rattled the shutters while salt air moved through every open passage. Penelope labored until dawn, and Odysseus paced outside her chamber as though issuing enough instructions might hurry the child into the world. By the time the infant finally cried out, the king of Ithaca had exhausted the patience of every servant in the corridor.

Then the nurse placed the child in his arms, and Odysseus stopped moving.

For several long moments, he said nothing. He studied the small, furious face, the dark hair damp against the boy’s head, and the tiny hand that closed around one of his fingers with surprising strength.

“Telemachus,” Odysseus said at last.

Penelope watched from the bed, exhausted but smiling as her husband held their son against his bare chest.

“A name meant for distance,” she said.

“A name meant for battle,” Odysseus answered.

Neither of them understood how much distance and battle the young prince would experience.

Telemachus was still an infant when the ships sailed for Troy. He would never remember the morning Odysseus carried him to the harbor, or Penelope standing rigid beside them, refusing to weep where the soldiers could see. He would not remember his father touching their foreheads together before handing him back to his mother.

He grew instead with stories.

Odysseus the clever. Odysseus the fearless. Odysseus, who could outthink any king and outfight any warrior.

Men who had trained with his father visited the palace and told Telemachus how Odysseus let fly an arrow to its target farther than anyone on Ithaca, how he read an enemy’s intentions before the man drew his sword, and how he knew when courage was needed and when patience would win the day.

Every story made the absent man larger. Every year made Telemachus feel smaller beside him.

By the time he was ten, boys in the village had begun calling him Machus. The name started because one of them could not say Telemachus properly, but it remained because it suited him. Penelope never used it, and neither did the palace servants when anyone important was listening. To them, he was always Telemachus, son of Odysseus, prince of Ithaca.

Machus felt a part of the boys who raced him along the cliffs, shoved him laughing into the sea, and treated him as though his father were not a legend.

Xanthos knew the name, but he never used it.

Not then.

Xanthos had been ten when Odysseus sailed for Troy. His father, a fisherman, had died the winter before when a storm overturned his boat within sight of shore. His mother remained in the lower village, surviving on what little the family had saved and what neighbors could spare.

Even as a boy, Xanthos had been difficult to overlook. His hair was darker than wheat and lighter than bronze, a deep amber that caught fire beneath the sun. He was tall for his age, broad through the shoulders, and quieter than the other boys who crowded around the training ground whenever the palace guard drilled.

Odysseus noticed him because Xanthos watched.

While the other boys pretended to fight, Xanthos studied where the soldiers placed their feet. He watched how they carried their shields and how they recovered when a strike missed. When Odysseus corrected one of the guards, Xanthos repeated the movement with a stick in the dust.

The king spoke to him only a handful of times, but those moments became fixed in Xanthos’s memory.

On the morning before the fleet sailed, Odysseus found him near the training yard and told him to present himself to the captain of the guard when he was old enough.

“You listen before you move,” Odysseus said. “Most men learn the opposite and die before they can correct it.”

It was not an apprenticeship. It was not yet mentorship. It was simply recognition from the one man on Ithaca whose recognition mattered most.

Xanthos entered military training as soon as the captain allowed it.

By fourteen, he carried supplies and cleaned weapons for the palace guard. By sixteen, he trained beside men who had once dismissed him as a fisherman’s son. At eighteen, he fought in his first real engagement when raiders from the western islands landed at night and attempted to take livestock, grain, and women from the outer settlements.

The fighting did not end with that one raid.

Odysseus had taken many of Ithaca’s strongest warriors to Troy, and men from neighboring islands understood what the absence meant. Penelope ruled in the king’s place, but ruling did not quiet every challenge. There were disputes over fishing waters, attacks on merchant vessels, and men who mistook a queen’s restraint for weakness.

Xanthos became one of those who kept them from reaching the palace gates.

He rose through the guard without seeking attention. He was not the loudest soldier, or the quickest to boast about blood spilled. Men followed him because he saw danger before it arrived and because he never asked anyone to stand where he would not stand himself.

By twenty-eight, Xanthos had become the finest warrior remaining on Ithaca.

Telemachus knew all of this in the distant way a prince knows the names and reputations of men who serve the kingdom. He had seen Xanthos in the courtyard, at the harbor, and standing guard during feasts. He had watched him train from shaded balconies and heard servants mention the latest battle won along the coast.

They had exchanged formal words over the years.

“My prince.”

“Xanthos.”

Nothing more.

Xanthos was not part of Telemachus’s childhood. He had never trained him, never guided him, and never taken the place of the father who had gone to war. He belonged to the world beyond the palace walls, a world of soldiers, ships, and violence that Telemachus had been prepared to inherit but never allowed to enter.

That distance made it easier to watch him.

Telemachus had noticed men for as long as he could remember. At first, he noticed strength: the movement of shoulders beneath a tunic, the shape of a back when a fisherman pulled in a net, the ease with which certain soldiers crossed the training yard with their bodies controlled and sure.

Later, he noticed other things.

The line of a man’s mouth. The dark hair beneath his arms when he lifted a spear. The way damp cloth clung after swimming.

He understood that he was supposed to watch young women. Suitors arrived for his mother with daughters, nieces, and widowed cousins who were carefully placed near him at feasts. Some were beautiful. Some were clever. He liked several of them.

But he never looked at them the way he looked at the men who trained below his window.

He told no one. He had no name for what he felt, only the certainty that it separated him from the future everyone else assumed he would live.

One day, he would rule Ithaca. One day, he would marry. One day, he would father a son who would inherit the kingdom.

Those expectations surrounded him as completely as the sea surrounded the island.

And still, when Xanthos crossed the courtyard after training, bare-chested and shining with sweat, Telemachus forgot every young woman whose name his mother’s advisers had placed before him.

Xanthos had grown into the body his reputation suggested. He stood perhaps two inches taller than Telemachus, though the breadth of his shoulders made the difference seem greater. His chest was deep, his arms thick with muscle, and his thighs shaped by years of climbing rock, marching in armor, and holding his ground against charging men.

A pale scar ran from beneath his left ribs toward his back. Another cut through one eyebrow, giving him a severity that vanished whenever he smiled.

His hair remained his most striking feature. It was not yellow and not red, but dark gold, like honey held close to fire. In summer, the sun lightened the ends until they glowed against his bronzed skin. His eyes were amber as well, warmer than his hair and harder to meet when Telemachus feared his thoughts might be visible.

Telemachus had caught himself staring more than once.

At Xanthos’s chest. His arms. The fulsome shape beneath the short training cloth wrapped around his hips.

Each time, shame followed desire so quickly that the two had become difficult to separate.

Xanthos never appeared to notice.

Or he was kind enough to pretend he did not.

On the morning Telemachus decided to leave Ithaca, three more suitors, seeking his mother’s attention, arrived at the palace. They came with servants, gifts, and the confidence of men who believed Odysseus had been dead long enough for courtesy to become unnecessary.

Penelope received them in the great hall.

She had grown thinner during the previous year. Silver had begun to show at her temples, though she covered it beneath her veil when strangers were present. She remained beautiful, but Telemachus could now see the effort required for her to sit straight while men argued over her future as though she were land to be divided.

He stood behind her chair and listened as one man praised his vineyards, another spoke of ships, and the third looked at Telemachus with the indulgent smile of someone addressing a child.

“A household needs a master,” the man said.

Telemachus felt his hand tighten around the carved wood of his mother’s chair, but Penelope answered before he could.

“This household has one.”

The man’s smile faded. “He has been gone eighteen years.”

“He has been gone,” Penelope said. “That is not the same as dead.”

After they withdrew, she remained seated while the hall emptied around them. Servants carried away untouched wine. Advisers disappeared into adjoining rooms, relieved to escape before mother and son began speaking even more honestly.

Telemachus walked around the chair and knelt before her.

“You cannot keep doing this.”

“I have done it for eighteen years.”

“And every year costs you more.”

Her expression changed then. It was not weakness. Never that. But something in her seemed to loosen.

“What would you have me do?”

“Let me find him.”

Penelope stared at him for so long that he heard water moving in the fountain beyond the hall.

“You have never left Ithaca.”

“Then I am overdue.”

“You know nothing of the mainland.”

“I can learn.”

“You know nothing of war.”

“I am not looking for war.”

“War rarely waits to be invited.”

Telemachus rose. “I cannot sit here while they consume what he built. They eat his food, drink his wine, insult you beneath his roof, and look at me as though they are waiting for me to become frightened enough to disappear.”

“You think leaving will frighten them?”

“No. But returning with my father might.”

A shadow of a smile touched her lips, then vanished.

“And if you do not find him?”

“Then I return knowing I looked.”

Penelope stood and walked toward the open doors. Beyond them, the slopes of Ithaca descended toward the harbor. The sea stretched blue and bright beneath the morning sun, beautiful enough to make a man forget how many lives it had taken.

“You cannot go alone,” she said.

“I would travel faster alone.”

“You would die faster too.”

“A company of soldiers will draw attention wherever we go.”

“I am not sending a company.”

He came to stand beside her. “Then who?”

Penelope looked across the courtyard.

Xanthos was training with two younger guards. He wore only a short leather skirt, wrist guards, and sandals. One man attacked from the front while the second tried to circle behind him. Xanthos shifted, caught the first man’s wrist, and used his momentum to throw him into the second. Both went down in a tangle of limbs and dust.

Xanthos offered them his hands and pulled them up.

“Mother.”

Subtly gesturing toward Xaanthos, “He goes with you.”

Telemachus’s pulse changed. “You have already decided.”

“I decided years ago who I would trust if this day came.”

“He commands part of the guard.”

“He protects Ithaca. For this journey, that means protecting you.”

Telemachus watched Xanthos bend to retrieve his sword. The muscles across his back shifted beneath sun-browned skin.

“Will he agree?”

Penelope glanced at him. “He has never refused his duty.”

“That is not the same as agreeing.”

“No,” she said. “It is usually more dependable.”

Xanthos arrived in Penelope’s private chamber before midday, with Telemachus at her side.

He had washed after training and changed into a clean linen tunic belted at the waist. His amber hair was still damp, and the absence of weapons made him seem no less dangerous. Even standing quietly near the doorway, he filled the room.

Telemachus had never been alone with him before.

He became uncomfortably aware of that fact as Penelope explained the journey.

They would leave within two days and cross to the mainland aboard a merchant vessel. From there, they would travel first toward Pylos, where rumors placed soldiers recently returned from Troy. They would carry enough silver to purchase information, lodging, and passage, when necessary, but they would not announce the prince’s identity unless doing so served a purpose.

“Just the two of us?” Xanthos asked.

“Just the two of you,” Penelope said. “A larger party will slow you and draw attention. Two men can pass as travelers, traders, brothers, or soldiers looking for work.”

Xanthos’s gaze moved to Telemachus.

It was not the deferential glance of a guard acknowledging a prince. He studied him openly, taking in his height, build, and perhaps measuring how long he might last beyond the island.

“Brothers may be difficult,” Xanthos said.

“Why?” Telemachus asked.

“We do not resemble one another.”

Something in his tone suggested another answer, but Penelope did not pursue it.

“Then invent something better.”

Xanthos nodded. “How far do you intend us to go?”

“As far as the truth requires.”

“That is not a distance.”

“No. It is an instruction.”

A hint of thoughtful appeared in Xanthos’s eyes.

“I will keep him safe.”

“I did not ask you to keep him hidden in a box,” Penelope said. “He must learn the road and how to protect and find himself. Protect him without preventing his growth.”

For the first time, Xanthos looked unsettled.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

His amber eyes met hers. “Yes, my queen.”

Penelope turned to her son. “You leave at dawn the day after tomorrow.”

Telemachus nodded.

His mother crossed the room and placed both hands against his face. For a moment, he was a child again.

“Bring him home,” she whispered.

“I will.”

Her eyes shone, but she did not cry.

“And bring yourself home too.”

They left Ithaca beneath a sunny sky with few clouds.

The merchant vessel was narrow and fast, its hold filled with olive oil, dyed cloth, and clay jars packed in straw. Telemachus had crossed the waters around Ithaca many times, but he had never watched the island diminish behind him.

Penelope stood at the harbor until he could no longer distinguish her from the servants and guards around her.

Xanthos remained several paces away at first, speaking with the ship’s captain and checking their packs for what Telemachus suspected was the third time. He wore a sword at his hip, a knife at his back, and a dark cloak folded over one shoulder. Their belongings held little more than food, spare tunics, blankets, and silver hidden in stitched leather pouches.

When the island had become a dark shape against the horizon, Xanthos joined him at the rail.

“You can still change your mind,” he said.

Telemachus continued watching Ithaca. “Can you?”

“No.”

“Then neither can I.”

A quiet laugh came from Xanthos.

Telemachus turned. “What?”

“You answered that quickly.”

“You expected hesitation?”

“I expected a prince who has never traveled beyond sight of home to understand that leaving is easier than continuing.”

“You do not think I will continue?”

“I do not know you well enough to think anything yet.”

The honesty irritated Telemachus almost as much as it intrigued him.

“You know who I am.”

“I know whose son you are.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No,” Xanthos said. “It is not.”

They stood in silence while the sail snapped overhead.

Telemachus studied him from the corner of his eye. Xanthos seemed entirely at ease aboard the vessel, shifting his weight with the deck’s movement without looking down. He had the self-possession of a man who trusted his body and expected it to obey.

“You knew my father,” Telemachus said.

“A little.”

“My mother said you trained under him.”

“She made it sound grander than it was.”

“What was it?”

Xanthos rested his forearms on the rail. “I watched him train the guard, while I watched, learned, and mimicked. He noticed and appreciated my method. Before he left, he told the captain to take me in when I was old enough.”

“That was all?”

“It was enough.”

Telemachus looked at him. “Enough to make him your mentor?”

“Not then. But I spent years learning from what he left behind. His methods. His decisions. The men he had trained. Sometimes a few words can shape a life if they arrive at the right moment.”

Telemachus looked back toward the fading island.

“My father gave you direction.”

“Yes.”

“He left me stories.”

Xanthos said nothing for a moment.

Then, quietly, “Stories can be directions too.”

The answer was almost kind, which made Telemachus less certain how to receive it.

By late afternoon, they reached the mainland. Rather than buy horses immediately, Xanthos chose a road that climbed inland toward a village where they could learn which routes remained safe.

“You expect trouble?” Telemachus asked.

“I expect people.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Not often.”

They walked until sunset.

Telemachus had trained throughout his life, but palace training had not prepared him for hours beneath a pack. The road climbed over rough ground, then narrowed between low hills covered in scrub and wind-bent olive trees. By the time Xanthos selected a sheltered place to camp, Telemachus’s shoulders ached and the backs of his heels had begun to burn.

He said nothing.

Xanthos noticed anyway.

“Take off your sandals.”

“I am fine.”

“Take them off.”

It was the first direct order Xanthos had given him.

Telemachus lowered himself onto a flat rock and pulled the leather straps loose. The skin at both heels was red.

“You should have said something,” Xanthos said.

“It is nothing.”

“It becomes something if the skin breaks.”

He took a small jar from his pack and dipped two fingers into a salve that smelled of herbs and oil.

Telemachus watched those fingers move toward his foot. “I can do it.”

“I know.”

Xanthos took his ankle anyway. His hand was warm and large enough to circle it easily, and Telemachus’s breath caught before he could stop it.

Xanthos looked up. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

Xanthos held his gaze for a moment, then rubbed the salve carefully over one heel and the other. His touch was practical, but Telemachus felt it everywhere.

This was the closest they had ever been.

He noticed the pale scar cutting through one eyebrow, the roughness across Xanthos’s knuckles, and the faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The warrior smelled of leather, sun, and the clean salt left from the crossing.

When Xanthos released him, the absence of his hand was almost as noticeable as its presence had been.

“Tomorrow, you tell me before it worsens.”

“Yes.”

Xanthos’s brow lifted. “Yes, what?”

Telemachus smiled faintly. “Yes, Xanthos.”

“Better.”

They gathered wood together and made a small fire beneath an outcropping of rock. Xanthos prepared dried meat and barley cakes while Telemachus unrolled their blankets.

There were two.

He had checked.

He was not sure whether he was relieved.

Night settled quickly away from the palace lights. Stars appeared above them in numbers Telemachus had never seen from Ithaca’s busy harbor. The fire pushed back the darkness only a few feet, making the world beyond it feel endless.

Xanthos sat across from him, one knee raised, his forearm resting on it. He had removed his cloak and sword belt. Telemachus had already removed his. Firelight moved over his face and caught the gold in his hair. His tunic had loosened at the neck, revealing his upper chest and a small, dark mark below one collarbone.

Telemachus forced his eyes toward the flames.

“Were you afraid the first time you went into battle?”

Xanthos looked up. “Yes.”

The honesty surprised him. “You never seem afraid.”

“I learned young that seeming afraid and being afraid are separate matters.”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen.”

“The same age I am now.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Xanthos picked up a thin branch and pushed one end into the fire.

“Raiders came ashore west of the main harbor. They expected to find farms defended by old men and boys. Most of Odysseus’s best soldiers were still at Troy.”

“Did they reach the villages?”

“One of them.”

Telemachus waited.

Xanthos’s attention remained on the fire. “We drove them back.”

“That sounds simple when you say it.”

“It was not simple.”

“Were men killed?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill anyone?”

Xanthos’s gaze lifted to his.

“Yes.”

The answer carried no pride.

Telemachus looked away first. “My mother never speaks of those battles.”

“Your mother had enough fear without placing more of it inside the palace.”

“She protected me.”

“She protected Ithaca.”

“She did both.”

Xanthos nodded. “She did.”

Telemachus studied him across the flames. “You have fought for her for ten years.”

“I have fought for the kingdom.”

“That sounds like an answer meant not to choose a side.”

“It kept me alive among soldiers.”

“Are soldiers so difficult?”

“Men are difficult. Soldiers simply carry more weapons.”

Telemachus smiled. “Have you been close to many of them?”

Xanthos’s gaze shifted toward the darkness beyond the fire.

“Close enough.”

There was something in his voice now, something that made Telemachus lean forward slightly.

“What is it like?”

“Battle?”

“The men.”

Xanthos looked back at him.

Telemachus wondered whether he had revealed too much, but the question had been asked. He would not retreat from it now.

“Men become different in the field,” Xanthos said. “At home, they belong to fathers, wives, children, farms, and trades. On the road to battle, those lives feel very far away. The man beside you becomes the only one who understands the fear you cannot bring home.”

“So they become friends.”

“Sometimes.”

“Brothers?”

“Sometimes.”

The firelight seemed brighter.

“And sometimes?”

Xanthos’s eyes held his. “Sometimes men find comfort where they can.”

Telemachus could hear the blood moving in his ears.

“What kind of comfort?”

Xanthos did not answer immediately. He reached for the wineskin and drank before returning it to the ground between them.

“Closer than friendship,” he said at last.

Telemachus swallowed. “Do their wives know?”

“Some do. Some do not ask. Some understand that what happens during a campaign does not replace what waits at home.”

“Because it is not love.”

“Often it is not.”

“Only sex?”

The word left Telemachus before he could stop it.

Xanthos went still, not shocked but attentive.

“Yes.”

Telemachus stared into the fire. He had imagined such things without knowing other men had lived them. He had feared his desires marked him as unnatural, weak, or unfit for the life awaiting him.

Instead, Xanthos spoke as though men touching men was simply another truth carried home from war.

“Does it help them fight?” Telemachus asked.

“It can build trust. Loyalty. A man fights differently when the person beside him has held him through the night.”

The words settled deep inside him.

“Have you?”

Xanthos’s face revealed nothing. “Have I what?”

“Found that kind of comfort.”

The silence stretched long enough for Telemachus to expect a refusal.

“Yes,” Xanthos said.

The answer moved through him like heat.

“With many men?”

“One asks questions boldly for his first night away from home.”

“One has spent his life being told almost nothing useful.”

Xanthos smiled then, slow and unexpectedly gentle. “No. Not many.”

“Did you love any of them?”

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

Telemachus looked down at his hands. “Why not?”

“Because closeness is not always love.”

“How do you know the difference?”

Xanthos studied him across the fire.

“I imagine love is the person you continue choosing when fear is gone and comfort is no longer the only reason to stay.”

Telemachus raised his eyes.

The warrior’s expression had changed. Something guarded had entered it, or perhaps something guarded had briefly left.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” Xanthos asked.

“No.”

“Wanted anyone?”

Telemachus’s throat tightened.

He could lie. He had lied through feasts, training sessions, and conversations about marriage. He had perfected the careful smile of a prince who understood what was expected of him.

But Ithaca was behind them now. The night was dark, and the man across from him had just admitted that warriors sometimes held one another in the field.

“Yes,” Telemachus said.

Xanthos waited.

“A man?”

The question was quiet.

Telemachus nodded.

Xanthos did not look away.

“Does that disgust you?” Telemachus asked.

“No.”

The certainty in his voice loosened something inside Telemachus that he had been holding tight for years.

Xanthos leaned back on one hand. “You thought it would?”

“I did not know what to think.”

“Now you do.”

“Do I?”

“You know it is not something you alone have felt.”

Telemachus looked at the flames. “That does not mean I can live openly with it.”

“No.”

“You agree?”

“I agree that being a prince is not the same as being a soldier on campaign.”

The relief in him faltered.

Xanthos saw it.

“I am not telling you to deny yourself,” he said. “I am telling you the truth. You will have duties other men do not.”

“Marriage.”

“Perhaps.”

“Children.”

“Likely.”

“My father’s kingdom.”

“Eventually.”

Telemachus felt the old walls closing around him again.

Xanthos shifted closer to the fire. “But none of that means what you feel tonight is false.”

Telemachus looked up, and their eyes met. The space between them seemed smaller than it had moments before.

“Who was he?” Xanthos asked.

Telemachus’s pulse hammered. “Who?”

“The man you wanted.”

He should have chosen someone distant. A fisherman. A visiting guard. A traveler Xanthos would never meet.

Instead, he said, “He never knew.”

“Then he was a fool.”

A laugh escaped Telemachus before he could stop it. “You cannot know that.”

“I know enough.”

Xanthos reached for another piece of wood and placed it on the fire. The movement pulled his tunic tight across his shoulders.

Telemachus’s gaze dropped.

Only for a moment.

When he looked up, Xanthos was watching him.

This time, he had noticed.

Neither spoke. The air between them changed again, quieter and more dangerous than before.

Xanthos broke the silence first. ““You should sleep,” Xanthos said. “I’ll take the first watch.”

“And the second?”

“I’ll wake you.”

Telemachus glanced toward the darkness beyond the fire. “You trust me to hear danger?”

“I trust you to stay awake when I tell you to.”

Xanthos stood and lifted his sword belt. The hem of his tunic shifted as he moved, and beneath the linen, the bulge Telemachus had tried not to notice throughout the day was impossible to miss in the firelight.

He looked away too late.

Xanthos buckled the belt around his waist.

“Telemachus.”

The formal name made him look up.

Xanthos’s expression was neither amused nor offended.

“I have called you Prince because that is what you are.”

Telemachus’s mouth went dry. “And now?”

“Now we are alone on the road, and titles will become inconvenient, and disclose too much.”

The fire cracked.

“What did your friends call you?” Xanthos asked.

“Machus.”

Xanthos repeated it slowly. “Machus.”

No one had ever made the shortened name sound intimate before.

Telemachus lay down beneath his blanket while Xanthos took his position near the edge of the firelight. He faced away from the camp, one hand resting near his sword.

Machus watched the broad line of his back and thought about soldiers holding one another before battle. He thought about comfort that was only sex, and about love as the person one continued choosing when fear was gone.

Before sleep finally took him, he heard Xanthos speak without turning around.

“Rest, Tel.”

The name was softer than Machus.

Smaller. Private.

Telemachus closed his eyes.

For the first time since leaving Ithaca, he did not feel as though he were walking only toward his father. Something else had begun on the road, something he did not yet understand but could already feel pulling him forward.

Continue the journey…

The Other Odyssey continues exclusively inside Just Between Men, where members receive original romance, mythology, fantasy, and science fiction published nowhere else.

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I’m Dean Newcomb, and I’m glad you’re here.

Stories Between Men is where I share fiction that celebrates authentic relationships between men. Whether contemporary romance, mythology, fantasy, or science fiction, every story begins with the same belief: attraction may spark a relationship, but trust, friendship, and love are what make it unforgettable.

Here you’ll find stories that are romantic, passionate, adventurous, funny, emotional, and occasionally heartbreaking—but always grounded in genuine human connection.

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The Men of Creekside Lodge follows a group of men whose lives become intertwined at a mountain lodge where unexpected encounters often lead to second chances, lasting friendships, and love.

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Just Between Men is my members-only collection of original fiction—stories you won’t find on Amazon or anywhere else.

It will feature exclusive romances, mythology reimagined, science fiction, fantasy, and completely new adventures created especially for members... and because writing them is simply too much fun to keep to myself.

The first exclusive serial is The Other Odyssey, a reimagining of Homer’s epic through the eyes of Telemachus as he discovers not only his own destiny, but an unexpected love. It begins the same weekend the new Odyssey film reaches theaters—a fitting time to imagine another story that history never told.

A Little About Me

Here’s a small secret.

Swiped Left, Fell Right, the first novel in The Men of Creekside Lodge, was inspired by how I met my husband. While the names, places, and many events have changed, the heart of the story is real.

Jake is me.

Dante is my husband.

Mark is my ex.

From there, the characters took on new lives and refused to stop talking.

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— Dean Newcomb

Creekside Lodge
Lake Arrowhead, California

Brent threw his gym bag onto the bed and stared at the cabin like it might answer back.

It didn’t.

Which, honestly, was kind of the point.

Creekside Lodge had come highly recommended. A friend of a friend had done a weeklong yoga retreat there and came back suspiciously serene. Like, “Maybe I’ll become a yoga instructor and open a juice truck” serene.

Normally Brent would’ve mocked it, but lately… peace sounded pretty damn good.

The cabin certainly offered that. It was a one-bedroom cabin with a king bed, a fireplace in both the living room and bedroom, and a kitchenette stocked with beautiful, multi-colored Fiestaware.

The lodge supported the arts, but Brent hadn’t realized that meant original plein air oil paintings and handcrafted, signed pottery. Each of the fifteen cabins overlooked the creek on one side and a meadow on the other. Above the meadow stood a former barn building with a cozy common room downstairs and a yoga, massage, and event space upstairs.

The lodge was living up to its reputation.

Brent just hoped the promise of finding oneself in a place like this also held true.

He ran a hand through his thick brown hair, recently trimmed but still tousled in that just-woke-up-perfectly kind of way he used to get compliments on. Lately, though, the compliments felt hollow. Or maybe they had stopped landing. It was hard to feel seen when no one really cared to look beneath the surface.

West Hollywood had turned into a carousel of hookup apps, brunches that doubled as shirtless auditions, and late nights he couldn’t remember followed by mornings he didn’t want to wake up to.

Brent wasn’t jaded.

Not exactly.

Just… done.

At least for now.

He’d booked a one-week stay at the lodge with no real plan beyond:

Daily yoga.

Walks by the famous creek.

Finishing at least one book he kept meaning to read.

And no dating apps. Period.

Rules were easy to list.

Harder to follow.

Brent wasn’t here to flirt or make friends or even be noticed.

Which would be a first.

He was here to unplug. Unwind. Un-fuck whatever had gotten tangled in his head and his heart.

The cabin was charming—knotty pine walls, a fireplace with a stone hearth, flannel bedding that actually smelled like fresh laundry and not just Febreze pretending. Outside, a gentle creek murmured, birds chirped like they had a union, and the pine air was so clean it felt suspicious.

There was a handwritten welcome card on the desk.

“Welcome to Creekside Lodge, Brent!

Yoga is at 8AM and 4PM. Guided hikes are posted in the common room.

—Dante, Jake & Mark”

He’d only met Dante at check-in—a salt-and-pepper-haired smolder who greeted him like they were already friends. Friendly, but professional. No flirting.

Thank God.

Brent kicked off his sneakers and lay back on the bed. The quiet pressed in like a weighted blanket.

And yet, his thoughts didn’t stop.

Who was he now?

He’d built a reputation in LA as the charming, masculine bottom who could give as good as he got. Physically confident, emotionally available—on the surface. But surface had become his whole personality. His body looked great on Instagram, his smile lit up dating apps, and his Grindr inbox was always full.

And yet… empty.

He worked from home as a freelance UX designer, mostly for wellness startups, boutique retreats, and the occasional luxury brand trying to seem “authentic.” The work was fine. Clients loved him. He had money in the bank. Freedom to travel.

So why did he feel so damn hollow?

Brent sat up, annoyed with his own spiral. It was a sunny afternoon, and a short hike might be just what the doctor ordered. He tugged on a pair of khaki hiking shorts and laced up his boots. A quick hike wouldn’t fix everything, but it couldn’t hurt either.

He’d spotted a trail behind the lodge when he pulled in. Just a short walk, he’d thought.

Outside, the afternoon sun created a shady path that felt inviting. Perfect light filtered through the trees, and the creek glittered like something out of a screensaver.

He followed a narrow path past a sign that offered directions to a viewpoint, took a deep breath of pine and possibility, and hiked toward the trailhead.

The air felt good in his lungs. His muscles welcomed the stretch. His mind slowed just a little.

He didn’t need to figure out his whole life today.

Just take the next step.

Then the next.

He passed the first trail marker and kept going.

And going.

And… huh.

He stopped and looked around.

Had that rock been there before?

Wasn’t the trail supposed to loop back?

And where was the viewpoint?

The air was starting to get a little cooler. The shadows longer. He was shirtless and wondered if that was a mistake.

With a quiet stab of panic, he turned around and realized nothing looked familiar.

Brent sighed, pulled out his phone, and stared at the screen.

No signal.

Of course.

He looked up at the thick trees, the winding path, and the silent forest.

“Well,” he muttered, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”

And then he laughed out loud.

If he was going to get lost in the woods, he might as well look good doing it.

He stepped forward.

Then froze.

A figure was walking up the path toward him.

Tall. Rugged. Worn boots. Forest-service-green shorts that fit a little too well, a button-up ranger shirt, a pack slung over one shoulder, and a face like someone who understood the breeze blowing through the pines.

The man raised a hand in greeting.

“Hey there,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “You look a little off trail.”

Brent’s shoulders dropped in relief.

“Story of my life,” he said, with a crooked smile.

The man smiled back.

And just like that, the stillness shifted.

Something—or someone—had found him.

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Lake Arrowhead, Desert Hot Springs, Rosarito Beach, and back to Lake Arrowhead, California

Dante didn’t answer right away. Part of his hesitation wasn’t just surprise—it was clarity. Saying yes to Jake might also mean saying goodbye to two people who’d been in his life for years. Friends who had once leaned on him during their darkest hours—people he had supported unflinchingly—but who now questioned whether Jake was right for him. Their words had cut deeper than he expected—not because they were right, but because they came from people he never thought he’d have to choose between.

He understood their motivation.

And made his choice.

Jake had proposed in the soft glow of the bathroom light, toothbrush in hand, heart laid bare. For a moment, everything had gone still. Dante met his eyes, the silence stretching between them like a breath held too long.

And then—he nodded.

Not a dramatic yes. Not a speech. Just a quiet, certain nod that said yes, I’m in.

That was enough.

They hugged and kissed.

The dogs barked in the next room.

It felt like the beginning of a family.

Finally.

And just like that, a new chapter began.

The next morning, over coffee, they talked through what it all meant—what a wedding would look like, when, where, and how to make it feel like theirs. No stress. No production. Just love, surrounded by the people who mattered.

The hot springs inn they found in Desert Hot Springs wasn’t flashy, but it was perfect. A small, walled oasis with just enough rooms for their closest friends and the healing quiet of the desert. The highlight was the natural hot mineral water—flowing through the pool and spa, its warmth both calming and invigorating. There was something about mineral water that made it feel more sensual on the skin. A shaded meadow near the back of the property became their altar. May, being shoulder season at the Lodge, meant Mark could manage things solo for a week, and the desert warmth was pleasant.

Jake invited his parents.

They declined.

Said they loved him but couldn’t condone “the ceremony.”

Dante’s parents had passed years ago. His sister wasn’t welcome.

Instead, they were surrounded by chosen family—friends from Lake Arrowhead, artists from the Village Gallery who had become like extended kin, and long-time friends from LA. A friend who’d been their go-to officiant for weddings at the Lodge happily accepted the invitation to perform the ceremony. She now stood barefoot and beaming, ready to marry them.

The wedding took place beneath the shade of a large tree in the meadow, its wide branches stretched overhead like a natural cathedral. Jake and Dante wore matching white cotton pants and pale blue Mexican wedding shirts—untucked, barefoot, grounded, real.

Guests were encouraged to take photos with their phones and share freely. What resulted was a mosaic of joy: laughter, candid kisses, clinking glasses, and shifting attire as guests moved from casual wedding clothes to swimsuits to soak in the springs.

The meal was Dante’s idea: a vibrant, family-style Asian menu, served on biodegradable bamboo plates and compostable utensils. Afterward, guests soaked, played croquet on the lawn, or sank into hammocks shaded by olive trees.

Champagne flowed. Music played. Lemon cream cake—frosted in pale yellow and adorned with fresh edible flowers cascading from the top—was devoured. The Palm Desert bakery had known it was for a gay wedding, and they’d gone all out.

It was the kind of day that didn’t need a formal script or matching linen napkins. It had love. Joy. Laughter. And people who gave a damn.

Later that night, after the final toast and last dip in the spa, Jake and Dante slipped away to their private suite at the far end of the property. Their patio spa was already warm, steam curling into the air. They made out like teenagers—hands everywhere, kisses deep and endless. They did what they could in the spa, but between the heat, the bobbing, and the laughter, they didn’t last long underwater.

They dried each other off and moved to the bed—with urgency.

Jake slid between Dante’s thighs, worshipping his husband with lips and tongue. He’d learned Dante’s body over time—how to tease, how to take him deep, how to hold steady as Dante’s hips began to rock. Dante’s cock was thick, and thankfully not too long to take all of it. This was a big moment for Jake. He’d never wanted to do this before—not like this. With Dante, it felt natural. Intimate. Right. He wasn’t ready to swallow, but he was close—and determined to get there.

Dante tugged him up, kissed him, and got him into doggy-style on the edge of the bed. He started slow—warming Jake up with his fingers, which Jake enjoyed as much as anything else. When Jake’s desire for him peaked, Dante entered him—slowly, lovingly, with a patient rhythm at first, then gave in to everything he’d been holding back.

Jake braced against the mattress, moaning into the sheets, taking him deep and hard. He felt like he’d disappeared into the moment. Found the love of his life. Treasured every aspect of him.

They didn’t stop there.

On the bed. On the floor. Pressed against the window, moonlight casting shadows on their skin.

Their first night as husbands was everything—hungry, tender, unforgettable.

The next morning, they left for Rosarito Beach.

Their two-story oceanfront casita overlooked the Pacific and had a rooftop deck where they made love under the stars. Their fridge held only the essentials: fruit, bottled water, snacks, scotch, tequila, margarita mix, and coffee. They walked into the village for fresh tacos and smoky mezcal. Laughed. Napped. Explored each other like it was new again.

One night, with no one else in sight, they stripped on the beach and waded into the ocean. Waves lapped at their thighs. Dante pulled Jake close, kissed him like they hadn’t kissed in weeks. Jake dropped to his knees in the surf, Dante’s hands in his hair, the moonlight glowing off his back.

They made love in the rooftop spa. On the deck lounge chairs. On the floor. In the bed. Against the glass doors with the ocean beyond.

Back in the casita, Jake knelt at the foot of the bed. Dante guided him with a firm hand and steady gaze. Face-fucking had never felt so intimate—so completely theirs. It would never happen with anyone else. Part intimacy and part trust.

By the fifth day, they’d made love in every room, every position, every mood—from playful to primal. Jake was surprised by how much he craved it all. Every moan. Every deep, grinding thrust. Every sloppy kiss that ended in laughter or silence or both.

What they began on that wedding night became a ritual—starting the day with a kiss and ending it with another. And everything in between if time and desire allowed. Which, more often than not, it did.

On the fifth morning, Jake rolled over and whispered, “I miss the dogs.”

Dante grinned. “Me too.”

They packed that afternoon and left for home the next morning.

Life at the Lodge had quietly carried on. The dogs lost their minds when they returned. Amber barked like she’d just witnessed a miracle. Gato blinked slowly, unimpressed, then curled up with Jake like he’d never left.

Guests returned, each in search of something—calm, clarity, maybe connection. And more often than not, they found it.

One afternoon, as Dante checked in a solo guest who looked like he hadn’t smiled in weeks, he felt it again. That quiet pull in the air. Not attraction—but intuition.

This man needed exactly what Creekside Lodge—and maybe Cupid—offered.

A shift.

A new story.

His name was Brent.

From West Hollywood.

Said he needed space to breathe. To figure things out.

“Just a weekend,” Brent said, managing a tired smile.

Dante handed him the key with a knowing nod. “This place has a way of turning weekends into something more. Cupid’s been known to hang around.”

Brent chuckled politely, clearly unconvinced.

But Dante had seen it before.

And something told him… this guy’s story was just beginning.

###

Next at Creekside Lodge: The Hiker

After getting lost in more ways than one, Brent finds himself deep in the forest above Lake Arrowhead—and face to face with a rugged ranger who might just be the unexpected path forward.

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Lake Arrowhead, CA

Dante stood in the compact kitchen of the cabin behind the Village Gallery, slicing fresh herbs while Cheri and Bebe patrolled the floor beneath him. The cabin wasn’t much—just a cozy one-bedroom with old plumbing and good light—but it had become their weekend hideaway. Ever since that third date turned sleepover, he and Jake had been inseparable, spending more time together in Lake Arrowhead while Dante dipped a toe into mountain life. The dogs, of course, had adjusted instantly. They already acted like locals.

Cheri and Bebe—rescued a year apart from Save Animals from Euthanasia—were inseparable now, bonded like littermates. Cheri, the long-haired blonde terrier mix, was the bossy one. Bebe, with her sleek Chihuahua-dachshund frame and soulful eyes, followed her lead.

Dante scratched behind their ears as he prepped breakfast. That third overnight with Jake had gone better than he’d dared imagine. They’d made love in front of the fireplace, skin against skin, wrapped in warmth and honesty. It hadn’t just been about lust—it was about being seen, touched, chosen. Both of them had felt it. This was the start of something real.

In the two weeks that followed, they texted and called constantly. Good morning. Good night. Sometimes a little heat in between. The banter flowed easily, and so did the affection.

On a chilly January Saturday, Dante returned to the mountain with his dogs and an overnight bag—and a plan. He wanted to spend more time in the village, cook a real dinner, and stay the weekend. As he pulled into the small plaza near the market, clouds hung low and heavy with the promise of snow. He smirked to himself.

“Oh, darn,” he said aloud. “I might get snowed in.”

Dante shopped with care—local bakery bread, organic vegetables, wine from the village co-op. He knew Jake was working the gallery, Mark the lodge. Every time Dante came or went from the cabin, he checked in at the gallery. Jake wasn’t just happy to see him—he lit up. The dogs sensed it too. When Dante first brought them in to meet Jake, both tails wagged furiously, and they nuzzled into his shins like they’d been briefed on the whole thing.

By the time Jake crossed the gravel path that evening, the cabin was warm with the smell of herbs and lemon and roasted garlic. Chicken Scarpariello simmered on the stove. Dante greeted him with a kiss and a glass of wine. The dogs curled by the fire, satisfied with the company and heat.

Over dinner, Jake raved. “I’ve never even heard of this. But holy hell, this is incredible.”

He’d worked in restaurants for years but had never trained as a chef. When he opened Silver Spoon in Silver Lake, he hired a brilliant, unpredictable Italian chef who taught him everything from sauce balance to the magic of a good crust. Dante had been the face—handsome, charming, always in motion—but he also knew how to jump in when the kitchen was swamped or the dining room needed calming.

After dessert, the snow began to fall.

They made love again, this time in the king bed, the fire still crackling in the hearth. The dogs whimpered from below, not used to being excluded. Dante told them, “Not yet, girls,” and both curled up obediently on the blanket closest to the fire.

This time, the intimacy was deeper, more deliberate. They explored more, asked questions, and offered what they liked. Dante69 hadn’t been a joke—he was generous and talented. Jake, meanwhile, had always been nervous about oral—his previous partners were big, including Mark, who was a legend in that department. Dante, by contrast, was a perfect fit—gorgeous, thick, well-proportioned. Jake finally felt confident, like this was something he could enjoy giving as well as receiving.

Later, Jake got up to let the dogs out. Snow had piled high, soft and untouched. The eaves around the cabin created a thin path just wide enough for the girls to circle the perimeter. Jake bundled up and made it work. When he came back inside, Dante stirred briefly, smiled, and went back to sleep.

That moment sealed it for Jake. He wasn’t just falling. He’d fallen.

By Monday, Dante drove back to Echo Park, packed a bag, and returned to the mountain.

“As long as the Wi-Fi’s solid,” he said, “I can work from anywhere.”

Then, the unexpected happened.

The gallery and cabin were sold. They’d signed just days earlier. And then, the lodge fell out of escrow. The buyer’s financing collapsed. Had they known, they might’ve kept the gallery. But it was too late.

Jake and Dante moved into the lodge residence with Mark to help keep Creekside Lodge afloat. Mark was surprisingly gracious. He gave up the master suite and moved into the second bedroom. They’d already gotten to know each other, especially Dante and Mark, who bonded over hospitality war stories and sarcastic banter, and side jokes about sex with Jake.

Mark and Jake’s shepherd mix, Amber, was part of the household too—a gentle, loyal soul adopted from a local rescue. The trio got along famously. Gato, the cat Mark and Jake had adopted from the Animal Rescue Society, acted more like a dog than a feline—came when called, played in the private fenced meadow with Amber, and barely blinked around the chaos of canine energy.

One sunny afternoon, Cheri barked ferociously at a coyote trying to dig under the fence. Amber, without hesitation, charged the intruder and sent it running. The whole thing was witnessed through the kitchen’s big picture window, with Gato perched on the counter like a silent supervisor. Now they truly appreciated each other.

They split up responsibilities. Jake took over operations and marketing. Mark handled landscaping, maintenance, and housekeeping. Dante, naturally, took on event catering—especially weddings and retreats.

The master suite was spacious, with a massive bath and a walk-in shower. Four discreet eye bolts were mounted in the ceiling above.

“Plant hooks?” Dante had asked with a grin.

Jake had raised an eyebrow. “Sling.”

Dante smiled. “Oh. We’ll be trying that.”

And they did. Slowly, curiously, Jake let himself explore more versatility. With Dante in the sling, he found new rhythm and confidence. Their sex was adventurous, but always rooted in connection.

Mark, for his part, found his own rhythm. He stayed out of the bedroom mix but had a few townie hookups and enjoyed the attention of certain guests. No drama, just uncomplicated fun.

As word spread about the lodge, it became known for more than scenic views and crisp air. It became a place where people found something they didn’t know they needed. Peace. Intimacy. Themselves.

Guests came from all over. Straight, gay, singles, couples. They came for the lake and stayed for the calm. Yoga was offered four times a week. When the instructor was out, Jake stepped in. Guided hikes were popular too—Dante or Jake would often lead.

Some nights, all three dogs found their way into Jake and Dante’s bed. Gato preferred to sleep with Mark, perched smugly on the pillow like he owned the place.

One weekend night, after dinner and wine and a long soak in the tub, Jake got quiet. He watched Dante brushing his teeth, shirtless, beautiful.

And then he said it.

“I don’t want to do any of this without you.”

Dante turned, toothbrush paused midair.

“I mean it,” Jake said, stepping closer. “Marry me.”

Dante didn’t answer right away.

That comes next.

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Echo Park to Lake Arrowhead, CA

Dante had made the drive two times now, but the third was the one that made his hands tighten around the wheel.

He knew the route well by now—Hollywood Freeway to the 10, to San Bernardino, then the slow, winding climb to Lake Arrowhead. His dogs were at a friend’s place, just in case. He wasn’t planning to drive back down that night. Not this time.

This time, they’d planned for more.

He watched the exit signs blur past, the quiet hum of the road keeping time with the thoughts circling in his head.

The first time he saw Jake in person, it was at the gallery—The Village Gallery, co-owned with his ex. Not exactly the most comfortable setting for a first meet. Dante had driven nearly two hours and pulled up right out front. There was Jake, running between the gallery and a nearby cabin, arms full of wine and snacks.

Their eyes met. That was the first spark.

He was invited into the reception, introduced to the ex—Mark, and Dante didn’t miss the slight puff of pride in Jake’s voice when he said his name.

They left before the performance started, strolling down to Cedar & Sage. It was the best restaurant in town, Jake had said. And he was right. The place had real atmosphere: wood, warmth, flickering candles. They ordered drinks—Scotch, naturally—and Jake suggested the fried sage as an appetizer. Even though he had been a restaurateur, Dante had never heard of sage as an appetizer, and Jake seemed proud that this would be a unique experience. When Dante took the first bite and that aioli dip hit just right, he thought: Okay, he knows what he’s doing.

The conversation that night wasn’t fluff. It was real. Past pain delivered with grace. Shared hopes, not just jokes. Dante didn’t stay. Jake had been clear.

But the kiss at the night’s end stayed with him the whole drive home, and frequently left him adjusting his jeans, with a smirk.

The second date had been more charged—flirty, intentional. Dante showed up early and made a loop through the village, casually telling every shop owner who asked that he was there to see Jake. No shame in it. He was proud. Everyone seemed to know Jake. He was more of a personality in the village than he’d thought.

They ate at Lakeside Café—smaller, warmer, live music humming behind them. Dante brought a gift—a polished Manzanita burl he found in a shop in the village. It felt bold, but right. Jake didn’t just accept it—he looked genuinely moved.

They watched an indie film at the tiny theater across from the gallery, and afterward, back at the cabin, they kissed longer. Touched more. Still no sex. Still no overnight. But the tension was there—thick and humming.

The third date? That one had been different from the start.

They both knew it could lead to more, and they’d planned for it. Dante made sure the dogs were with a friend. Jake had the cabin ready. The LL Bean sofa already unfolded into a bed, now layered with flannel sheets and thick, cozy blankets. A fire crackled in the stone hearth. Everything felt intentional, relaxed—like they both knew where this night might lead and welcomed it.

They had dinner at Ming’s Chou and laughed at the Chinese zodiac signs. Jake, a Goat. Dante, an Ox. Allegedly the worst possible match. They joked about being astrologically doomed, but neither one looked worried.

Back at the cabin, the room was warm, dimly lit. Jake handed Dante a drink. They sat close, cross-legged on the edge of the floor-level bed, trading stories, shoulders brushing, hands eventually finding each other.

When their lips met, it was like the final piece falling into place.

He’d had a lot of sex in his life, but this didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like an arrival. Like everything he’d endured had somehow led him here, to this moment, this man, this room where he didn’t have to pretend.

They undressed each other slowly, naturally. No rush. No showboating. Dante marveled at Jake’s body. It wasn’t about symmetry or abs. It was about presence. The way Jake moved, the quiet confidence in how he touched and received touch—it made Dante want to memorize every inch. His chest was strong and lightly furred, his skin warm and responsive. Everything about Jake—his muscles, his scent, his breath—felt real and grounding. For once, the pictures matched the man.

Dante took his time.

He kissed every inch he could reach, traced lines down Jake’s spine, across his belly, and up the inside of his thighs. Jake trembled beneath him, eyes wide and wanting.

He opened Jake slowly, fingers first—soft and patient, circling, pressing, waiting. He murmured affirmations against Jake’s shoulder, watching for the shiver that meant yes.

When he finally slid inside, Jake gasped—then gripped Dante’s arms and pulled him closer. The pace was deliberate. Deep. Their bodies aligned like puzzle pieces long separated. Dante moved in rhythm with Jake’s breath, his tension, his need.

And then, without thinking, caught in the intensity, he spit gently on Jake’s chest.

Jake froze.

“What the hell?”

Dante blinked. “Shit—I didn’t mean… Reflex. I wasn’t thinking.”

Jake looked up, startled but not angry. “Why would you do that?”

Dante softened. “It’s a… claiming thing. It’s like saying, ‘You’re mine.’ It just happened.”

There was a beat.

Jake exhaled and shook his head with a small laugh. “Okay. I’m not mad. It just caught me off guard. I’m not that kind of guy. Maybe flag it next time before you mark your territory. At least you didn’t pee on me like a dog.”

He paused, then smirked. “Although I do like the other dog-like traits. You feel amazing inside me. Everything’s perfect.”

They both laughed. Relief. Intimacy. Affection all tangled up.

Dante leaned down, licked the spit away, and whispered something unintelligible against Jake’s ear. They moved together again, slower this time, holding each other close as the fire softened to embers.

Later, they lay tangled in blankets, skin to skin.

No declarations, no speeches—just breath and belonging.

If he’d met Jake even five years ago, it would’ve been a disaster. He wouldn’t have recognized the value. Would’ve ruined it before it began. Now? He was different. He hoped Jake was, too.

And the quiet knowing:

Something had truly begun. And this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Echo Park, CA

Dante DeLuca lay sprawled on his bed, the late afternoon light casting shadows across the ceiling. His dark, silver-streaked hair curled against the pillow, and his mind, despite the quiet, was anything but still. At the foot of the bed, Cheri and Bebe—his ever-faithful mutts—dozed in a warm tangle of fur, their soft snoring a low, steady rhythm beneath the noise in his head.

Jake.

He hadn’t even met the man yet, and still, he lingered—like the promise of something warm in a world that had too often gone cold.

Dante wasn’t supposed to be this hopeful. Hope hadn’t always been safe.

He’d grown up in New York City, the child of married parents who lived separate lives. His mother, a beautiful, classy bartender, worked at some of the top restaurants in the city and in Connecticut. She got him jobs in restaurants when he was old enough. Before that, she got him bruises. Her words cut just as deep as her slaps, and his older sister hadn’t been much better.

He was out early. Brave, they said later. But bravery is often survival in disguise.

Dante had been bullied and harassed, sexually abused by an older neighbor, sexually blackmailed before he was old enough to drive. He ran away often, sleeping in cars, hiding on rooftops, or retreating to a decaying greenhouse on a long-abandoned estate where he kept stashed books and journals. He devoured novels like lifelines. He knew how to disappear—quietly, without notice—and come back smiling.

By sixteen, he was already catching the eyes of young professionals—men who liked his confidence and were willing to “take care of him” for a night or a weekend. Fancy dinners, new clothes, hotel rooms with views. He played the part. He always had.

At seventeen, he moved in with a slightly older boyfriend. It didn’t last. They never did.

One, Kirk, stuck around longer than most. At first, it felt like stability. They had a rhythm. But it was uneven. Kirk was stunning and played around—bathhouses, parties—and expected the opposite, fidelity, in return. It only became “fair” when Kirk invited Dante to join him. That was the beginning of the end. Dante was more popular than Kirk.

When Dante finally left, He told Kirk he was visiting friends in LA. He wasn’t. He was escaping.

His plane landed. Jake embraced the warmer air and the benefits of a geographic change. That night, he hooked up with a sun-kissed surfer who said “man” too often and kissed like it was his job. It was heaven. But also, just a one-nighter. A lot of one-nighters followed.

Still, Dante hustled. He got work in restaurants and catering, worked events where he poured wine for Hollywood stars and cleared plates for tech moguls. Eventually, he opened his own bistro in Silver Lake—Italian, naturally—and made a name for himself. People loved the food, the energy, the way he made you feel like the most interesting person in the room. He bought a modest craftsman in nearby Echo Park. It wasn’t far from West Hollywood, where he could still scratch the itches of his old life.

But none of it—none of the money, attention, sex—gave him what he truly wanted: a man who stayed. A love that lasted.

That’s when he joined OK Cupid. Half-skeptical, half-sincere. Cupid presented Jake to him.

Jake, who looked like warmth and restraint. Confidence without bravado. Sexy without trying.

Dante messaged him. Got rejected. Messaged again a day later. Rejected again. And, a week later, a third time. Each “no” was polite. Respectful. And somehow made Jake more intriguing.

Dante wasn’t used to this. He was versatile, hot, and knew how to satisfy anyone in any way they wanted—he’d learned early that skill could earn you admiration, desire, even power. But it never brought love.

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What made it more frustrating—and more fascinating—was that OK Cupid wasn’t supposed to show you someone who’d rejected you. And yet, Jake kept popping up. It was like rubbing salt, or in this case, adding to the desire.

OK Cupid prided itself on understanding great matches. Like most dating apps, a series of questions were answered. Deeper questions that most apps. The algorithm rated each person in your feed with “Friend, Lover, Enemy.” Jake’s numbers were strange. The percentages were above average in all three categories, nearly equal as lover and enemy. Something weird was going on.

Jake’s profile had said, “Not looking for perfect. Just real.” Dante couldn’t shake that line.

So he sent one more message.

“You keep turning me down, and I get it. But Cupid seems to have brought us together. I’ve heard ignoring Cupid tends to backfire. I’d rather not find out what happens if we don’t at least have dinner.”

When Jake finally wrote back—just a single line—Dante’s chest went tight.

“Fine. If it’s really Cupid and not a glitch in the system, I guess we’ll know.”

It was happening.

Tomorrow, he’d make the drive. Nearly two hours. Up a mountain. For a man who might still say no.

He stood, stretched, and checked his reflection. Still handsome. Still standing. Still himself. Still hopeful.

But ready. Finally.

This wasn’t about rescuing or being rescued. It wasn’t about filling a void. It was about showing up.

Maybe Jake would see him for who he was—a survivor, sure, but also someone ready for long-lasting love.

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