Page 78 of The Key Holder

Dylan cocked his head. “Both?”

“How about we go see if we still have everything we need for camping instead?”

“Fine.”

We stood up and made for the door. With lightning speed, I yanked Dylan’s shorts down, enough to expose his ass, and gave his right cheek the strongest slap I could.

“Fuck!” Dylan yelled, jumping forward.

“How was that?”

He bent over and looked over his shoulder. “Harder, Daddy.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry I tried.”

“I’m not.” He grabbed my hand, pulling me close to him. “You’re definitely doing more of that later.”

That afternoon was a flurry of activity.

We rummaged through the shed, unearthing the familiar navy blue tent. Shockingly, it was still in great shape. Backpacks and sleeping pads were pulled from the bedroom closets, and the small kerosene stove was in its normal spot under the sink in the kitchen.

As we sorted through the gear, I held up a sleeping bag. “Think we’ll need two of these?” I asked, knowing the answer.

Dylan grinned, leaning over to kiss my bicep. “I think we can manage with one.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of preparations. While I figured out our food and drink situation, prepping a few meals and bagging up some snacks, Dylan sharpened our camping knives with meticulous care. Afterwards, while Dylan ran upstairs to pack our clothes, I checked the batteries in the headlamps, testing their beams in the darkness of the hall closet.

By the time we had dinner, everything was laid out and ready for the morning—backpacks loaded, boots by the door, the ice packs freezing—and we were both tired.

"Shower?" Dylan suggested, his eyes sparkling with an invitation. We were of the same mind lately and it was encouraging.

We headed upstairs, shedding our clothes in a trail leading to the bathroom without a second thought. The hot water from the shower felt incredible, especially for my recovering muscles. Dylan reached for the body wash, his hands gliding over my chest and arms, working up a rich, fragrant lather that smelled faintly of pine and citrus, almost like we were already camping.

After a few minutes, I reciprocated, my fingers tracing his spine, downwards, slipping between his cheeks, feeling the tension release under my touch as the air filled with steam. We stood under the spray for a long time in silence, just enjoying each other’s touch and the intimacy of being close.

Tonight’s shower felt like more than just bathing, it was a performance, a meaningful one. The day had ended—we were washing away its traces—and replacing it with the promise of our shared bed and tomorrow’s adventure. It was evident to me how much Dylan cared for me in this moment, and I hoped he felt my love for him in every touch.

Later, we talked softly, snuggling under the sheets. I went over our checklist for the morning, and we discussed the best trail to take the next day. It was heartwarming to see Dylan so excited about something and I thanked my past self for remembering to bring it up.

My arm held Dylan close, his back pressed against my chest, his ass nestled in its usual spot. Much like the shower, words weren’t necessary. Sleep came easily as I imagined all the things we’d get to do tomorrow.

“I don’t think I can carry that.” Dylan pointed to the cooler.

“Don’t worry”—I slapped him on the back—“that’s going on my pack. You’re carrying the smaller one.”

“Phew.”

I strapped the fabric cooler to the top of my pack, which already had our clothes, the tent, and the heavier food items, then hefted it onto my shoulders, letting the weight settle on my back. It was pretty heavy, but it would be a good workout. Dylan’s pack was lighter—he had the sleeping bag, the pads, the snack food, and other random shit. Each of us also had a large water bottle. After locking the cabin, we headed out.

“You know where we’re going?” Dylan asked, following behind.

“Yeah.”

“How long before we get there?”

I chuckled. “We just started.”

“I’m just trying to manage my expectations.”