Page 17 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

We’re curled up on the old couch in the cabin, a letter from Harold and Elliot open between us. It’s yellowed with time, the ink soft at the edges, the folds worn like it’s been read a hundred times. Maybe it has.

Père reads aloud, his voice low, almost reverent.

“It wasn’t fireworks, not at first. It was smaller than that. Quieter. I just remember thinking, ‘Oh. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life without this person.’ I always feel like the best version of myself around you.”

He stops reading. The stillness after the letter is heavy—like the air’s holding its breath. I glance at him, watching the firelight play across his face.

“So?”

He looks at me, already defensive. “What? No.”

“Come on .” I nudge his leg with mine. “Tell me.”

“Van…” Père sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just coming to grips with these feelings, and you want me to go into detail about them. It’s hard for me.”

I grin, teasing because I know it softens him. “Think of it like therapy.”

He huffs out a laugh, but it’s a fragile one. He leans back, his fingers still lightly gripping the letter, his eyes tracking the flicker of flame in the fireplace.

“I’ve always felt the closeness of our bond,” he says finally. “You’ve always been my boy. And I’ve always been the man you looked up to.”

There’s a pause. I can hear the rain starting outside, a gentle tap against the roof, and the soft crackle of wood giving way to heat.

“Remember that wet dream?” he says, almost like he’s testing me. “The one that got you booted to the couch?”

My ears go hot. “Hard to forget.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “At the time I thought it was just adolescence. Hormones. Growing pains. But in the summers that followed, I started wondering if maybe it had something to do with me.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t breathe .

“You’re terrible at hiding your flirting,” he says, glancing at me, just for a second. “Your attraction. It’s as blatant as the nose on your face.”

I try to look innocent. He raises a brow.

“When you were in high school, I realized you had a crush on me,” he continues. “But that’s all I thought it was. You, figuring yourself out. Practicing on the man you felt safest with.”

Something twists in my chest. I want to protest. Tell him it was never practice. But I don’t interrupt.

“It wasn’t until last year… maybe the year before,” he says slowly. “When you started college. When you brought that… that written porn up here.”

I stifle a laugh. “It was research.”

Père gives me a look.

“I realized it was more than just a crush,” he says. “And that it wasn’t so harmless, either. That’s when I started reevaluating things. Started seeing you differently.”

My heart is beating too loud in my ears. I can’t move. I can barely sit still.

“It was just a thought here or there at first,” Père explains. “An image I couldn’t shake. Something… unwanted. Invasive. But it didn’t stop there. It got into my dreams. My subconscious. I’d picture you in ways I shouldn’t. And I didn’t want to, Van. I didn’t want to feel that way.”

I feel like I’ve just stepped off a cliff, but he’s not done.

“I don’t know what to do with all these feelings,” he says, voice hoarse now. “I want to act on them selfishly… but sensibly. Because I know what you think you want, but I also know I’m older, and this world doesn’t give men like us much room to make mistakes. ”

I swallow hard. My voice is quiet when I finally speak.

“It’s not a mistake.”

He looks at me then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to find some version of himself in my eyes that he’s not ashamed of.

I reach out. Not dramatic. Not some movie-scene lunge. Just my hand, slow and deliberate, crossing the quiet divide between us. My fingers brush his. Then his wrist. And then I wrap my hand around his and anchor him to me like I’m grounding us both.

His fingers twitch in mine before settling.

“I see you,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve always seen you. Even before I knew what I was looking at.”

He stares at the fire for a long time without speaking, without pulling away.

So I go on, softer still. “I’m not a kid anymore. I know what this is. What it isn’t. You don’t have to protect me from myself.”

He closes his eyes and I watch the tension in his shoulders rise, then slowly release, like a breath.

“It’s not just about protecting you,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “It’s about protecting us. ”

That lands hard. Because it’s not a no. It’s something closer to a yes, but…

I shift closer, our knees touching now, his hand still warm in mine.

“I don’t want a fantasy,” I tell him. “I want the real thing. You. Complicated, scared, frustrating as hell—you.”

Finally, he looks at me. And there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen quite so clearly before. Not lust. Not panic. Not even guilt.

It’s longing. Naked and trembling.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says .

“Good,” I whisper. “Then we can figure it out together.”

And this time I lean in.

Not like the firelit kiss from last night. Not sticky with sweetness, not melting into him like chocolate between graham crackers. This one’s smaller. Barely a brush of lips. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against his.

Neither of us moves.

The fire pops behind us. Rain taps against the roof like soft applause.

And for the first time since this all began, we sit in the stillness, letting our new reality settle in our bones.

Not crashing.

Not simmering.

Just being.

We must fall asleep like that—foreheads touching, hearts a little steadier. At some point, he moves, I turn into him, the fire burns low. The rain hushes us into sleep.

The rain has stopped, but the world’s still soggy. The cabin smells like wood smoke and damp air, the kind of fresh that only comes after a storm.

I wake up slowly, like I’ve never been this comfortable in my life. I’m cocooned in blankets, warm all over. There’s a heaviness to the air, but it’s not bad. It’s the kind that wraps you up and tells you it’s safe to stay.

And when I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Père, still asleep, his face soft, relaxed for once. He’s lying on his side, facing me, his arm tossed across the blanket like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

My heart stutters. It’s all too much—this man, these feelings, this goddamn moment. It’s exactly what I wanted, but I didn’t think it’d feel like this. This soft, fragile thing that could break if we don’t handle it right.

Yawning wide enough to crack my jaw, I stretch, pulling the blanket a little higher, and when I do, my hand brushes his. His fingers twitch but he doesn’t wake, and I smile, letting my fingers weave with his, the way we did last night by the fire.

I stay there, just watching him sleep, until the sunlight starts to creep in through the window, casting streaks of pale gold across his face. The way it hits his skin, the lines of age and wisdom softened in the light, makes him look even more... real . More mine .

I want to kiss him. I want to feel his lips again, hear him groan softly into the kiss, feel the world shrink down to just the two of us. But instead, I stay still, watching, just breathing in the quiet of the morning.

And then, just as the quietness becomes too full, I feel his fingers tighten around mine. His eyes flutter open, and for a moment, he’s disoriented, like he forgot where he is, forgot where we are.

Then he looks at me, and everything settles.

“You’re still here,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

“Where else would I go?” I answer, squeezing his hand gently. “I’m right here. Always.”

He smiles, just the faintest curve of his lips. And then, before he can say anything more, he pulls me in, kissing me slow and soft, the kind of kiss that says we’re still figuring this out, but we’re here.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he says against my lips, his breath warm and a little shaky.

“Me neither,” I whisper, my heart hammering in my chest. “But I’m not running. ”

He leans his forehead against mine, his breath steady now. “You don’t have to.”

And for the first time, I feel like I don’t have to either.

Feeling bold, and horny, I throw off the blanket and climb into Père’s lap. He’s as hard as I am, likely from morning wood, but maybe from our kiss. I bring my lips just inches from his, close enough to feel his warm breath puff across them.

A palpable electric charge sparks between us, and time seems to stand still. I can hear the soft sound of his stomach rumbling, feel the subtle shift of his body beneath me, like he’s waiting for me to close the gap, to give in.

But I don’t. I hold steady.

Père’s eyes flicker open again, and he looks at me like he’s trying to read something in my face, something I haven’t figured out yet myself. His breath comes faster now, the tension thick and delicious, like we’re balancing on the edge of something huge.

“Van,” he murmurs, his voice so raw and intimate, like my name is the only thing he knows how to say. “Don’t.”

I pause, feeling that all-too-familiar knot tighten in my chest. “Don’t what?”

He swallows, like the words are harder to spit out than he expected. “Don’t make me… do this alone.”

And there it is. The opening. The invitation. Not just to kiss him, but to be with him. To stand in the middle of all these messy, terrifying feelings and choose each other.

I close the gap between us, finally, lips brushing his, slow and tentative at first. But the second I feel his breath against me, I pull him closer, my hand coming to the back of his neck, deepening the kiss until there’s nothing between us but heat, nothing but the fire I thought had already burned out, but somehow still smolders in every touch.

When I pull back, just enough to breathe, I rest my forehead against his, my fingers tracing the line of his scruffy jaw. “You’re not alone,” I whisper, my heart pounding. “Not anymore.”