Page 6 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Waylon

I should have gone back inside the second I heard his footsteps. But I stayed. I didn’t turn around. Didn’t even flinch when he sat near me.

I thought, if I don’t move, maybe he’ll stay quiet. Maybe I can pretend this is nothing. That we’re nothing.

But he didn’t.

Of course, he didn’t.

Van has this way of speaking—soft, sincere. And when his words start to carry too much weight, he switches to humor, and wants you to think it’s all just a joke, but if you listen closely, it’s not.

“You ever feel like everything’s about to change,” he asks, “but you’re the only one who knows it?”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Thank God. Because I’m already looking at him.

He looks pale in the moonlight. Fragile. Vulnerable.

And I—God.

I edge closer, just a hair, letting my shoulder settle near his as if by accident, and let myself imagine what it would feel like if he reached back.

Of course, he doesn’t.

And I’m relieved.

And I’m disappointed.

I don’t know what I’m doing. My head’s a fucking mess.

He flirts like it’s nothing. Like the risk doesn’t cost him anything. And I don’t know how to live like that. With all this feeling on the surface. Like it’s not dangerous. Like it won’t ruin everything.

But I sit here anyway. Breathing the same air. Feeling everything shift beneath me like ice underfoot.

And I don’t move.

I still haven’t decided what that means. It’s not supposed to be like this.

When did Van grow up? He resembles a man now, albeit a young one, but the boy I raised is long gone.

Want is supposed to be clean. Tidy. You feel it, you shelve it. You act on it or you don’t. It shouldn’t feel like unraveling. It shouldn’t sit in your chest like a secret you don’t have language for.

But Van—he makes everything messy.

Not on purpose. Well, maybe a little. He’s just... so easy to love . Loud and bright and careless in ways that don’t make sense. He talks to me like I’m someone special. Like he sees me.

And I hate how badly I want to be seen.

His eyes linger when he looks at me, and I can feel the heat sparking in his gut and mine.

I know what those looks mean. I’ve watched them develop every summer for the past few years.

He’s become bolder in his flirting. It used to feel harmless, like hero worship.

Now, though, it feels dangerous. Like fanning the tiniest ember could cause a raging wildfire to burn out of control.

I’ve been so good . For so long. Careful. Boundaried. You don’t let yourself want things, and you don’t get hurt. That’s the trade. That’s how you stay upright when everything else cracks.

And now he’s in my head.

Van, with his crooked smile and his hands always reaching for something—tools, trouble, me. Not really. Not yet. But almost.

He brushes past me too closely. Makes jokes that hang in the air like questions. Looks at me like he’s waiting for me to catch up to something he already knows.

And I’m terrified he’s right.

Because the truth is—I do want him.

Not just in the abstract. Not just in the way you want something you know you’ll never have. I want him in the quiet moments. When he’s tired and soft-spoken and lets the mask slip just a little. I want to touch him, not like a secret but like a fact.

But I can’t.

Because if I let myself want this— him —then I have to admit that I’m not as in control as I pretend to be .

And if I reach for him and he steps back, I’ll never forgive myself.

Worse, if I reach for him and he doesn’t step back, I don’t know who I’ll become on the other side of that.

So I say nothing, and I give him silence. I give him distance disguised as composure.

And when he looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway solved, I look away.

Because I already know the answer.

And I’m ashamed of how much I want it.

The sound of his axe splitting logs draws me out of the cabin. Sun glints off the sheen of sweat bathing his bare chest. So smooth. So soft. His refusal to wear a shirt this summer is driving me out of my mind.

I have a feeling that was his intention.

I busy myself wiping down the rocking chairs on the porch, sweeping the front steps, and brushing cobwebs from the corners of the overhang, but my gaze constantly strays to Van.

He’s working so hard to prove himself, chasing his dream. Carving stumps isn’t a future I dreamed of for him, but it’s as good as any, I guess. All that matters is that Van’s happy. No regrets. That’s the future I dreamed of for him.

Ducking inside, I pour a glass of ice-cold tea for him and bring it outside.

Van sees me approach and stops mid-swing, a grateful smile on his face.

“You’re a lifesaver, Cap.” He reaches for the glass and downs it in three gulps. I can’t stop watching his throat slide as he swallows. The images in my head come fast and uninvited. My gut twists.

I look away too late.

It’s not just guilt—it’s the knowing. What I want. What I can’t let myself have. What it would mean if he ever caught me looking like that again.

And still, I want to look.

God help me.

I shouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking.

I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling.

It’s not just wrong. It’s dangerous. Not because of what anyone else might say, but because of what it pulls out of me. How easily I forget the lines I’ve drawn. How badly I want to cross them.

I clench my jaw tight enough to hurt, but it doesn’t help.

I tell myself it’s nothing. That I’m tired. That he’s just... charismatic. Careless. That I’m just lonely. That it’s about proximity, not desire.

But none of that explains the heat in my face. Or the guilt crawling up my spine. Or the way my body remembers the shape of his hand against mine, like it’s a bruise I keep pressing just to feel something.

I don’t want this.

I can’t want this.

The axe slips from his sweaty grip.

He bends to grab it, and I reach for it too.

Our hands touch. Just for a second. Skin on skin. Warm. Rough. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.

We’re frozen in time, fingers tangled for the briefest, infinite moment.

My brain screams to pull back but my body doesn’t listen .

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

This is the part where I’m supposed to make a joke, tease the awkwardness out of the moment, but nothing comes to mind.

Van looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes—sharp, knowing, soft. Like he feels it too. Like he wants me to see that he feels it. That scares me more than anything.

I straighten too fast. My fingers curl into fists, and I pretend it didn’t happen, that it was nothing.

Van makes a joke about static electricity. I laugh, but I shouldn’t.

Because all I can think about is the way his skin feels against mine. How I didn’t want to let go. How badly I want that moment to mean something , and how terrified I am that it already does.

And worst of all?

That I don’t know if I want to stop it.

I lie awake staring at the ceiling, sheets tangled around my legs, skin too warm.

His voice is still in my ears. That grin. That damn casual intimacy he slips into everything.

He asked if I was okay.

He always asks. And I always lie.

Because what would I even say?

No, I’m not okay. I keep watching the way your mouth moves when you speak. I can’t stop imagining what your skin would feel like under my hands. I want you so badly it makes me feel like I’m coming undone.

No. I can’t say that .

I press the heel of my hand against my eyes, hard.

This isn’t who I am . I don’t lose control. I don’t want things I shouldn’t. I don’t look at people who don’t look back.

Except—God help me, he does look back.

And every time he does, it knocks the air right out of me.

What happens if I let this happen?

What happens if I don’t?

I turn over and bury my face in the pillow like I can suffocate the heat, and the ache, and the longing that feels so much like weakness, I could spit.

I’m supposed to be better than this.

But tonight, that doesn’t feel like enough.

Rotating my hips, I rub my bare cock against the coarse sheets and bite back a sigh of pleasure. Shit, I’ve got to touch it, though I hate to do it with Van on my mind. It’s not the first time, though, and I bet it won’t be the last.

Reaching a hand beneath me, I fist my weeping cock and grind against the cool sheets, thrusting into my calloused palm.

The lazy strokes build a heat in my groin that melts away my guilt, just for a moment, long enough to find release.

My mind flashes back to earlier, to Van shirtless, chopping wood.

His burgeoning muscles flexing beneath creamy skin.

His pouty lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated hard on not missing the log.

Because he was distracted… watching me instead.

I imagine I can feel the heat of his gaze on my skin now, as he indulged in a fantasy about me, chopping wood, stripping from the relentless heat, wiping sweat off my body like I was putting on a show for him. If I know Van, and I do, that’s exactly what he was picturing.

My balls draw up tight, and my gut tightens with a spasm as my orgasm crests, rolling through me like a tidal wave. I spill into my fist, trying to catch most of it so I don’t have to sleep in a wet spot.

As I wipe my hand dry on my discarded shirt, shame coils around my conscience like a Boa Constrictor, squeezing any joy I just found through release right out of my head.

I’m a disgrace. I don’t deserve him.