Page 1 of Ripe & Ready (Friction Fiction #1)

“ W hat are you afraid of?”

Derek’s voice cuts through the humidity like it’s nothing, like we’re not standing in the middle of the actual jungle surrounded by god-knows-what kind of wildlife, one mosquito bite away from a medical emergency. His words settle somewhere low in my chest. Not sharp. Just... direct. Like always.

And I think… so much, actually.

I’m in Odzala-Kokoua National Park in the Republic of the Congo. The actual Congo. On foot. In boots I borrowed. Preparing for an expedition to observe western lowland gorillas, an experience that, according to Derek, is “once-in-a-lifetime,” and according to me, is “a pretty solid way to die.”

This is the first time I’ve left our hometown. The first time I’ve left the country. The first time I’ve had to get six vaccines just to be in the same place as the man I’ve secretly been in love with for the last ten years.

And still, none of that is half as terrifying as the idea of telling him how I feel.

Despite my parents’ best efforts to raise me into someone confident, I wasn’t built for brave faces. I wasn’t made to take risks. I like safe. Safe makes sense. Danger? Not for me.

Like the time my dad took me on a Ferris wheel when I was little and we discovered, together, that I’m absolutely terrified of heights. Yes, I threw up over the side. Yes, it landed directly on my mom and sister in the car below. No, we don’t talk about it.

Or when I was twelve and my mom signed me up for horseback riding lessons as if riding a giant skittish animal was the key to self-esteem.

I was so scared of the horse I wouldn’t go within ten feet of it.

Eventually, I got on. Immediately panicked.

Fell off. Broke my arm. Swore I’d never do it again.

The horse was fine, in case you were wondering.

Then there was the time in high school when I told a boy I had a crush on him and he punched me in the face.

So yeah. Trying new things? Not a great track record.

Every new thing, every so-called brave thing, ended the same way. I got hurt.

So that’s the lesson, right? Stick to what you know. Keep your head down. Don’t reach. Don’t want too much.

But I want this, so here I am. Sweltering in the jungle, next to a man I yearn for, putting on the bravest face I can muster.

Derek Bannen is a walking adrenaline rush of a man, every inch of him carved by chaos and sun. His skin is golden and sweat-slick and glowing. His shirt clings to him, soaked through and stretched across a chest that was obviously hand-sculpted by a Greek god with a cardio addiction.

His abs flex with every breath, taut and unbothered, while his straw hat sits cockeyed on his head, barely containing the wild, sun-bleached mess of curls spilling out beneath it.

I glance over and meet his eyes. Sweet Mary mother of God, those eyes. Sharp and amber-bright, like they’ve never second- guessed a single decision in their life and right now, they’re locked on me. Watching me like I’m something worth seeing.

“What am I afraid of?” I echo, forcing a smile. “Literally everything.”

“How can you be afraid, Andy?” Derek laughs, nodding toward the stilted, wood-and-thatch hut that will be our lodging for the next week. “Our room has a roof! It’s not like we’re sleeping with the gorillas.”

No, but it does look like the most precarious thing I’ve ever seen.

The hut is a raised structure with palm panel walls and an open-air feel that suggests a high likelihood it’s vulnerable to every bug and beast in the Congo.

It’s connected to the resort and main research outpost by narrow wooden bridges that creak when the wind shifts.

Which, in case it’s unclear, is deeply unsettling.

“For the Congo, this is practically a Hilton,” he adds with a grin.

“I guess it does have a bed,” I say, mentally noting that a confident breeze with bad intentions could reduce it to rubble before sunset.

Derek’s been talking about this expedition for years. His parents paid for the whole thing. It’s a big graduation gift for getting into that fancy master’s program in biological anthropology at UCLA so he can specialize in primatology.

It was never a question of if he’d buy me a ticket. Only whether or not I’d actually go.

But considering this program is about to take him halfway across the world from our little corner of Raleigh, I didn’t say no. Because it’s Derek. And I never say no to Derek.

I accepted my role as a tagalong. Emotional support. Walking proof that sometimes love makes you do stupid things like fly across the globe and pretend you’re not terrified of snakes, parasites, and very large apes with judgmental eyes.

Figured I’d cash in on as much time with him as possible before he’s off living his jungle-research dreams and I’m stuck sending good luck texts from my couch.

So now I’m here. In the middle of the Congo. Watching the man I love live his best, mosquito-repellent-coated life while I spiral in breathable hiking pants and a deep sense of regret.

But sure. Totally chill. Practically a Hilton.

Derek has always been this way. Reckless in a magnetic, spunky way. He’s somehow both a human golden retriever and the reason I have recurring dreams about falling off cliffs.

That fearless energy is the whole reason we met.

We were nine, maybe ten, at this grimy waterpark in the Outer Banks with half-functioning wave pools and one main attraction: a stupidly tall waterslide that twisted like a death trap.

My older sister Jennifer somehow convinced me to climb it with her, even though heights made me cry and the idea of water pressure shooting into my sinuses didn’t exactly scream fun.

We made it almost to the top before I froze. Full meltdown, snot and tears, clutching the rusted railing like I was on the edge of a skyscraper. Jennifer, ever the motivator, turned and told me, flatly, “It’s too late. You can’t go back down. The only way is the slide.”

Which, okay, rude. Possibly illegal.

And suddenly, he was there. A boy my age, waiting a few steps below, wearing these ridiculous purple board shorts and enough sunscreen to qualify as a reflective surface. He looked like a marshmallow with attitude.

He didn’t flinch at my crying. He smirked and said, “What’s there to be sad about? My dad says the feeling of falling is half the thrill.”

That was it. No judgment. No teasing. Pure confidence, like he couldn’t imagine not wanting to throw yourself down a plastic chute at 30 miles per hour.

Somehow, in that moment, I felt invincible. Like maybe I could be brave, too. I wiped away my tears, scooted my bony ass into the rushing water, looked back at him, still beaming, still waiting, still so sure, and nodded before launching myself down the slide like I had something to prove.

It was awful. Water up my nose, slide burns on my elbows, a wedgie of biblical proportions. I came out coughing and flailing and completely sure I’d made a mistake.

But I’d done it.

Something in me had shifted.

Derek came down after me cracking up, face lit like the sun, and we were already best friends.

That was fifteen years ago and the thrill is still there.

Now it’s less slide and more emotional cliff. Because somewhere along the way I stopped wanting to impress Derek and started loving him. The real, messy, terrifying kind. The kind where every glance feels like a maybe, and every maybe feels like a setup for a real fall.

One that ensures I’ve been falling ever since.

Derek takes the key and swings open the wooden door to our hut, and okay, fine… he was right. For being smack in the middle of the actual jungle, it’s... weirdly nice? Like, way nicer than I was expecting for something built out of palm panels and hope.

He gestures for me to go in first, but I pause.

“You go,” I say.

He sighs. “I don’t think this is about you being a gentleman.”

“It’s definitely not,” I admit. “I thought maybe you could test the floorboards in case they collapse.”

His eyes go wide, but he flashes me a crooked smile. “You were gonna sacrifice me?”

“I would've gotten help. Very quickly.”

He gives a mock-disapproving shake of his head, still charmed despite himself. “Unbelievable.”

“Efficient,” I correct.

The space is oval-shaped, warm-toned wood everywhere, with brass accents and flickers of filtered sunlight pouring in through screened windows that let a breeze cut through the sticky heat.

There’s even an en suite bathroom. An actual shower.

It smells like eucalyptus and something citrusy and expensive, and for a second I think maybe I won’t die here after all.

Then I see it.

The bed.

Not the mosquito net, though it does fall gracefully from the ceiling like something out of a honeymoon brochure, soft and gauzy and infuriatingly romantic, even though its actual purpose is to keep death bugs from burrowing into our skin.

No. It’s the bed itself.

Singular.

I stand there blinking at it, like maybe if I stare hard enough, it’ll split in half. Or a cot will magically fall from the ceiling. Or God will strike me down for the sin of thinking thoughts about my best friend in a jungle love nest.

Derek clocks it instantly. Of course he does.

He’s completely unbothered. “Don’t try to steal all the covers, okay?”

My whole body locks up. My brain short-circuits. I can’t do this. I cannot sleep next to him. I cannot lie in that bed, breathe the same air, feel the heat radiating off his perfect jungle-god body, and not combust. That’s not sleeping. That’s emotional waterboarding.

“Yeah,” I say, voice cracking. “Totally. No cover stealing. Got it.”

I’m definitely gonna die here. Not from malaria. Not from a gorilla attack. From proximity.

“I’m glad you came with me,” Derek says from behind me, snapping me out of my downward spiral about bed-sharing and mosquito net-based proximity crimes. His voice is softer now, quieter. “I know this isn’t really your thing.”

For you it is, I think, but I don’t say it.