The Mediator
I don’t own yacht clothes.
I own cargo shorts that survived three summers, a pair of Chacos with the heel strap blown out, and exactly one shirt I didn't buy in a park gift shop.
The Ralph Lauren polo wasn’t technically mine: it had lived in the back of my closet since my cousin Ian’s wedding in Kelowna two years ago, but it still fit. Barely. The collar made me feel like I was impersonating someone. Like I was about to knock on a frat house door and ask where the rush party was.
I wore them because I had nothing else.
Just as I was rubbing sunscreen into my neck, my phone buzzed.
Soraya: Wait… you’re actually going??
I sent back a thumbs-up.
Soraya: lmao okay Captain. Just remember:
Soraya: bow = front, stern/aft = back. port = left, starboard = right. try not to embarrass yourself.
Soraya: and for the love of god, don’t call it a boat!
I smirked and pocketed the phone, resisting the urge to ask if she knew what kind of shoes didn’t slip on fiberglass.
The marina was too clean. Not as clean as a trail, with pine needles and rinsed-out air. Clean like money. Like bleach and citrus, and people who didn’t carry their own gear.
A young guy in a marina staff polo met me at the security gate and scanned the clipboard. “You’re with the Pierce and Sloan party?”
“Yeah, Drew Pierce invited me.”
“They’re in Slip 23. Head down that way, then left at the last row.”
The dock planks flexed under my Chacos as I followed the walkway, passing boats with names like Liquid Asset and Time Is Money, some of them gleaming like showroom floors. A few had crew on deck, one guy was coiling lines with the kind of precision that made it look rehearsed.
I assumed anything with a dedicated crew meant a second-hand, maybe more.
I spotted the yacht before I saw Drew: white hull, steel-gray trim, the kind of sleek that tries not to look flashy and fails anyway. Printed in navy serif on the stern:
THE MEDIATOR
I stopped for half a second.
Of course. A divorce lawyer’s yacht, named The Mediator.
Not Phillip’s, though, his law partner’s. But he still sounded right at home up on the flybridge, already laughing like he paid the slip fees himself.
I was still clocking the lines of the yacht when Drew appeared at the edge of the deck, looking freshly showered and entirely too confident for someone who invited a park ranger to a floating law firm social hour.
“There he is,” he said, jogging lightly down the gangplank like he belonged here. He was in a linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show off some of his smooth chest. “You made it.”
“You doubted me?” I called up to him.
“Always. Maybe you would be waiting at the other Mosquito Creek Marina,” he chuckled.
Before I could say anything else, a voice called down from the flybridge above.
“Andrew, aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Drew winced, just slightly. “Yeah, uh, come aboard.”
I stepped onto the deck, trying not to wipe my hands on my shorts. The wood underfoot was too smooth, too pale. A surface not meant for boots or mistakes.
Phillip Pierce stood at the top of the stairs, drink in hand, blue polo crisp enough to slice air. Where Drew was all sun-streaked blond and careless grins, his father was a study in precision, hair the exact shade of a walnut desk, swept back with zero product betrayal, jawline clean-shaven to the point of refraction.
“You must be Charlie,” he said, flashing the kind of smile that had probably closed a hundred settlements. “I’m Andrew’s father, and one of the founding partners at Sloan, Pierce & Carr LLP. We handle high-net-worth family law, custody, complex separations, corporate shielding, the real crowd-pleasers.” His teeth were distractingly white. Drew shuddered, just slightly, at the list, the tone, or both, before forcing a smile.
“Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand. The grip was exact, firm, but not too much. Trained.
“So, how do you two know each other?” Phillip asked.
I hesitated, but Drew didn’t miss a beat.
“Charlie was a ranger at Lynn Canyon when I did my volunteer hours there for the CLC graduation requirement,” he said. “Back in high school. We ran into each other again this summer.”
Phillip nodded, approving. “Character-building stuff. Turned Andrew into a man, more or less.”
I forced a smile. “He wasn’t the worst high school kid I had to deal with.”
“High praise,” Drew said, smirking.
“Well,” Phillip said, “make yourself at home. Alcohol is inside. Get a drink before we set off. There’s ceviche coming up soon. Unless you’re more of a hot dog guy.”
I nodded and was relieved I wasn’t the last to show up. A few more guests were still arriving, law partners, their spouses, one guy who looked like he’d just stepped out of a golf magazine. Nobody looked stressed. Nobody carried their own bag.
After some more brief introductions, I made my way below deck and grabbed a drink from the compact fridge beside the galley, where a woman in a white polo was prepping a tray of ceviche. A second crew member, the deckhand, probably, was coiling lines outside like it was a performance.
I cracked open a NÜTRL vodka and came back up just in time to hear another law partner introduce his daughter.
“This is Siena,” he announced. “Second year Anthro at UBC.”
Siena gave a polite nod, then glanced past her father just briefly, toward Drew. Not just in passing, but with that flicker of recognition people get when they’ve known someone too long to act surprised.
She didn’t say anything. Just smoothed her hair behind one ear and smiled like nothing needed explaining. Her linen dress barely moved in the breeze, and she looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.
One of the other guests turned to me. “Hey, you’re at UBC too, right? You two must know each other.”
“Technically,” I said, lifting my drink. “But with fifty thousand students, I’m not even sure we use the same bus stop.”
Siena gave me a smile that was more eyebrow than mouth, then put one earbud back in.
“That’s our cue,” Drew said quietly, stepping beside me. “Come up front for launch?”
“You mean the bow?”
He smirked. “Look at you. Sea legs already.”
We headed toward the bow just as the deckhand untied the last line and called the bridge. The yacht eased out from the slip so smoothly it felt like gliding. The engines hummed low and confident beneath the deck, just enough sound to let you know how much money it cost to stay that quiet.
I stood with Drew near the railing as we cleared the breakwater and turned west to head out of Burrard Inlet. Behind us, the cook brought up a tray of shrimp, and someone already had music playing at just the right volume to suggest money without having to say it.
As we passed under the green ribs of the Lions Gate Bridge, the light shifted, hard sun, scattered through steel. A few people on the Seawall paused to wave. I wondered what I looked like from land. Someone who belonged on that deck? Or someone just passing through?
Drew leaned over slightly. “Still glad you came?”
I didn’t give him a direct answer.
By the time The Mediator pulled past Second Beach and curved into English Bay, it wasn’t even four o’clock, but the water looked like a parade. A sea of anchored vessels stretched from Kits Point to Sunset Beach, dinghies, speedboats, fishing trawlers, and even kayakers.
Phillip called him Sloan, never Gerald, never Mr. Sloan. Just Sloan. Sloan stood at the helm, sunglasses perched like a signature, both hands firm on the wheel. His voice carried easily over the deck as he directed the deckhand with quiet precision, not quite barking orders, but used to being obeyed.
Nobody onboard said anything as he nudged the bow between two smaller boats already anchored. But we all heard it.
A guy on a 20-footer stood up and waved his arms. “Yo! Are you serious?”
“You’re gonna block half the view, man! Unreal.”
Sloan didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize either.
“That’s the thing about this boat,” Drew muttered beside me. “She makes her own space.”
The anchors dropped, a low clank of chain against fiberglass, and just like that, we were parked, front row, like we’d bought the bay.
Drew exhaled and turned toward me. “Wanna do the tour again? I’m dying of luxury fatigue.”
“Didn’t we already ?”
“Yeah, but this time I’ll show you the hidden snack drawer in the guest stateroom. Too bad Uncle Gerry only keeps Coffee Crisps in there.”
We disappeared below deck just as Sloan started telling a story about the White Rock clients and some litigation nightmare that somehow involved paddleboards. The boat’s hum had gone quiet, replaced by the muffled sound of water slapping against hulls and portable speakers battling for dominance across the bay.
By the time dinner hour hit, the cook was grilling chicken skewers and what someone called a “marinated heirloom tomato situation.” I didn’t ask.
That’s when the patrol boats started making their rounds.
A blue-and-white VPD craft idled past on the port side, slow and deliberate. A Coast Guard rigid inflatable cruised the other direction, two officers standing upright, scanning. On the smaller boats, you could see people stashing beers, rearranging coolers, and trying to look innocent.
The VPD boat drew up alongside us.
“Any open alcohol on vessels not permitted by Transport Canada will be seized,” the officer called out.
Phillip was already at the rail. “Officer, is this really necessary? We’re not exactly…”
“Just a routine sweep, sir.” The officer replied.
Drew stood beside me, quietly amused. “You’d think the guy could turn it off for one day.”
The VPD Marine officer glanced across the deck, then blinked. “Charlie?”
I turned.
“Henderson?” I said, surprised.
He grinned. “No way. Didn’t expect to see you on a yacht. What happened, got too good for the mountain like me?”
“Just moonlighting in rich kid security,” I grinned. “How’s the marine unit treating you?”
“Honestly? Sunburn and drunk guys named Brad. Could almost mistake it for the Cove.” He gave a nod to the rest of the boat. “You all good?”
“We’re good,” I said. “Everything’s on ice.”
He tapped the rail once and nodded to everyone. “Enjoy the show. Drink responsibly.”
I watched the police boat move off, the Coast Guard cutting a parallel path through the mess of boats beside them.
Drew nudged me. “So… you’re even a big deal on the water too?”
“I’m a guy who knows a guy. Law enforcement community isn’t that big.” I said, sipping the rest of my NÜTRL. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
By seven, the sky was still bright, but the energy on deck had dulled. Conversation had slowed to the tempo of people waiting to be impressed by something, food, fireworks, or someone else's story.
The cook brought out the grilled chicken skewers for the main course. I picked the ones with the least balsamic vinegar smell.
Across the table, Phillip was retelling a story about some tech CEO’s prenup collapse like it was a war crime. Sloan nodded along. Siena’s dad, Michael, fake-laughed at all the right beats. Siena didn’t look up once.
“Charlie,” Phillip said suddenly, mid-sip. “You ever had to mediate a dispute on a trail? What happens if two hikers both want to set up camp at the same spot?”
“They figure it out. But I let them know of other options,” I said. “Usually, I deal with more disputes in the parking lot than in the forest.”
“Ah. Classic negotiation,” Phillip said, nodding. He pointed at me with his glass. “Family law’s changed a lot in the last decade. It’s not about who gets the house, it’s about who gets the narrative. And who keeps the kid’s birthday photos on their Instagram.”
“Guess that’s why you’re The Mediator,” I muttered.
Drew choked on his Sprite.
No one else laughed.
After that, the conversation rolled on without me. I pushed a cherry tomato half around my plate for a while before feeling a nudge on my arm.
“Want to disappear for a bit?” Drew asked under his breath.
“I thought we already did the tour.”
“Yeah, well. You missed the secret cabinet.” He stood without waiting for a yes.
The cabin was cooler than I expected, quiet too, the kind of quiet you get when water wraps the hull and everything above sounds muffled and far away. Drew pushed the door open like he’d done it a dozen times, like this room always existed somewhere just off the edge of boredom.
It was the smaller of the two guest staterooms, but still nicer than most hotel rooms I’d stayed in. Clean lines, a single bed made too neatly, a narrow dresser. The sunlight was angling in through the porthole window, too bright for this kind of silence.
Drew collapsed backward onto the bed and let out a long exhale.
“Rich boy exhaustion,” he said. “It’s real.”
I stayed near the door for a moment, then sat on the opposite edge of the mattress. Not touching. Not close. But not far enough to feel unobserved either.
We didn’t talk for a while. The muffled pulse of speakers throbbed through the floorboards, and somewhere above, someone laughed too loudly.
“You ever think about it?” Drew asked, voice soft. “When you knew?”
I glanced over. “Knew what?”
“That you were gay. Or... you know. Whatever.”
I looked down at my hands, elbows on my knees. “Yeah. Sixth grade swim lessons. Some kid in the locker room dropped his towel, and I remember thinking, that feels like information I’m not supposed to have.”
I paused, picking at the edge of my thumbnail.
“I was weirdly curious about my brother, too. Like... more than made sense. He’s six years older. Jeff. He’s a firefighter now, in Surrey.”
Drew tilted his head slightly, not saying anything yet.
“Back then, he used to change in front of me without thinking about it. And I’d look. Just quick, but I always did. I didn’t know why, but I knew enough to feel... off.”
Drew nodded slowly, still staring at the ceiling. “Mine was eighth grade. Camp in the Okanagan. Private school thing. A bunch of guys dared each other to skinny dip, like idiots. One of them came in after me and touched it. That part wasn’t the dare.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, really. Just… looks. A vibe. And then he told everyone I touched his on a dare so he wouldn’t get roasted.”
I didn’t say anything.
“He was the first,” Drew added. “Not the last. But it still pisses me off that he stopped talking to me after camp.”
I leaned back a little, enough to shift the mattress. The corner of the curtainless window caught my eye, and just past it, movement.
The deckhand.
He was checking something on the walkway outside, eyes flicking once toward the glass. Not lingering and not stopping. Just seeing.
Drew hadn’t noticed.
“We should leave it open,” I said quietly.
“What?”
“The space between us,” I said, a little too quickly. “We should keep it. For now.”
He looked over at me for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”
Neither of us moved.
We were still sitting there, not close, not far, when a shadow passed the open doorway.
A knock, then:
“Sorry, is this the kids’ table?”
Drew jerked upright. I turned.
Siena stood in the frame, one earbud in, a Dr. Pepper in her hand. She looked at us for a second, unreadable.
“Bathroom’s a mess. Some dad clogged it.” She stepped inside without asking. “I didn’t think anyone else was down here.”
“We’re just…” Drew started.
“Yeah. I see that.”
She dropped onto the edge of the built-in bench near the dresser, cracked her soda, and took a sip like she was waiting out a power outage.
“So, Charlie, right? You’re the ranger-slash-forestry guy?”
I nodded.
“That’s kind of cool,” she said, like she wasn’t sure if she meant it. “Do you have to, like, carry a radio and chase bears and stuff?”
“Sometimes. Mostly, I redirect people who think hiking means posting a selfie and ignoring signage.”
She smirked. “So basically an Arc’teryx therapist.”
“That’s disturbingly accurate.” I grinned.
Drew stayed quiet. Watching. Maybe surprised I was holding my own.
“Do you like it?” Siena asked, tone flat but not unfriendly.
“The job?”
“Yeah.”
“I do,” I said. “It makes sense. Trails don’t talk in circles.”
She raised her can slightly like a toast. “Can’t say the same for lawyers.”
Drew let out a laugh, finally. She glanced at him, then back at me.
“Okay,” she said, standing again. “That’s all the human contact I can take for now. See you up there.”
She left, bare feet whispering on the carpet. The door clicked shut behind her.
Drew let out a breath. “What the hell was that?”
“Social anthropology in action,” I commented.
He laughed again, genuinely this time. And for the moment, I didn’t feel like the odd person out.
When we came back topside, the sky had started to shift. The sharp July light had finally softened, diluted by haze and distance, streaked pink near the horizon. The air had cooled just enough to remind you the sun was temporary.
Most of the guests had drifted into their third or fourth drinks. Music played low from a Bluetooth speaker tucked beside the wine bucket, unmistakably Kenny G. Siena sat near the stern, legs folded under her, phone in one hand, drink in the other.
She looked up as we passed and gave me a nod, no smirk this time. Just a small, open smile that felt oddly sincere.
“Back from the brig?” she asked.
“Brief parole,” I said.
She huffed a laugh and went back to her screen.
Drew didn’t say anything, but I felt the shift. He stepped closer, closer than he’d been below deck. His arm brushed mine lightly as we moved toward the rail, like he was making it known. Not loudly. Just... marked.
“You doing good?” he asked, low enough that no one else could hear.
“I’m good.”
We stood at the edge, watching the city light up in stages, glass towers blinking to life one floor at a time. On the water, more boats had drifted in, drawn by gravity, timing, or maybe just the chance to feel like they belonged to something big, brief, and bright.
Just after 10 PM, Sloan announced that the fireworks were about to start like he personally arranged the event. He adjusted the volume on the yacht’s built-in sound system and flipped it over to Rock 101, where the synced broadcast was already rolling.
A few guests gathered at the bow with cocktails and cardigans, looking expectant and vaguely sun-wilted. Siena stayed seated, knees drawn up, her Dr. Pepper now flat and forgotten. Drew and I stood at the port rail, close but not touching.
The radio went quiet. Just dead air for a second too long.
Then….“I got my first real six-string…”
The first flare cracked the sky at the same time Bryan Adams started wailing about ‘playing it till my fingers bled.’ A dozen white comets shot upward in unison and exploded over the bay like someone had punched a hole in the night.
“Of course,” Drew muttered. “Of course it’s Bryan Adams.”
“National Treasure,” I said. “Can’t fight it.”
The water lit up in shimmers of red and gold. Across both shores, you could hear a hundred thousand little cheers rise from boats, beach towels, and balconies. The whole city exhaled together.
I felt it again, that unbearable closeness of standing next to someone you wanted to reach for but couldn’t.
Not out of fear. Just the rules. The crowd. His father nearby.
It was like the sky was saying everything I couldn’t.
Drew didn’t say anything else. He just stood with me, watching the night get torn open in colour. Then his fingers brushed mine.
I didn’t look at him, not right away.
But then his hand found mine fully, steady, warm, no hesitation.
He didn’t squeeze. Just held it.
“Me and some guys from school / Had a band and we tried real hard…”
Bryan Adams kept going. The sky did too.
I didn’t pull my hand back.
We stood like that until the song faded and the next one came in slower, gentler, instantly familiar.
“Looks like we made it…”
Shania Twain’s voice floated over the bay, soft at first, almost lost in the wind.
Siena groaned somewhere behind us. “Oh my god,” she muttered. “Of course they picked Shania.”
Drew leaned in, his thumb tracing my knuckles. “Wanna ditch?”
“Yeah. Lead the way.”
We slipped down the stairs again, slower this time. Nobody followed. Nobody noticed. The song kept playing through the walls as we disappeared below deck.
“You’re still the one I run to / The one that I belong to…”
We rounded the corner just in time to see the deckhand coming out of the cramped washroom, looking flushed and victorious. He held a big wrench in one hand like it had just won a battle.
“All yours,” he said, glancing between us. “Finally.”
“Thanks,” Drew said, maybe a little too fast.
The guy didn’t linger. Just gave a tight nod and disappeared into the engine room.
Drew pushed the stateroom door open. I stepped inside first.
The room was dim now, only the last light from the window slipping across the bed in a narrow gold streak. We didn’t make a sound.
I shut the door behind us.
We stood there for a second, both of us just… existing in the quiet.
Then Drew sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at me. Not cocky. Not joking.
“So are you gonna overthink it again?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. I just stepped forward, leaned down, and kissed him.
His hand came up to my jaw, running his fingers over my stubble, gentle but sure. He pulled me closer, and I followed him down onto the bed, half sideways, mouths still together, the mattress shifting beneath us.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t like last week. No need to finish before the moment collapsed.
Just breathing, and heat, and the quiet weight of everything we hadn’t said, pressed between us.
Drew kissed like he was trying to make up for every second he’d waited all day. Slow, but insistent. Focused. Like he had something to prove, not to me, maybe to himself.
I shifted beside him, one hand braced on the mattress, the other sliding lightly up his chest. His shirt was still unbuttoned from earlier, just far enough that I could see the slope of his collarbone, the curve of his sternum.
He tugged at my shirt, fingers slipping under the hem like it was second nature.
“Wait,” I breathed, pulling back just slightly.
He looked up, lips parted, pupils blown wide. “What?”
“We can’t... not all the way. Not here.”
“Why not?”
I gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “We don’t know when the music stops. Or if someone needs the bathroom again. Or if your dad wants to grab a Coffee Crisp.”
He exhaled, half-annoyed, half-understanding. “Fine. But that was not a no.”
“It was a later,” I said, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
He leaned in again, kissing me even slower this time. I kissed him back, then shifted downward, pressing my lips to the skin just above his chest, right at the open collar of his shirt.
He inhaled sharply.
“That should be illegal,” he whispered. “Whatever you just did.”
I smiled against his skin. “It’s not. Yet.”
When I sat back, his shirt had fallen fully open, and he reached down with zero shame to tug the waistband of his cargo shorts lower, just enough to flash a familiar pair of SpongeBob PSDs, bright yellow peeking above the hem.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said, laughing softly.
“What?” he grinned. “They're limited edition.”
“They’re trauma triggers.” I shook my head.
“You still like them,” he said, tilting his head. “I can tell.”
I rolled my eyes and kissed him again, once, softer now. The heat between us still hummed, but I didn’t let it tip over.
He gave me a pointed once-over. “Let’s see yours, ranger boy.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure this counts as coercion.”
“Come on,” he grinned. “Fair’s fair.”
I sighed like I was conceding a battle, then shifted back, lifting the hem of my shirt and tugging the waistband of my shorts down just enough to flash a pair of deep blue camo-print 2UNDRs, the elastic band riding smooth against my hip below my well-defined happy trail.
Drew blinked. “Whoa. That’s... actually kind of hot.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“No, I’m just, where’d you even get those?”
“Yesterday. Went to Brentwood and Sporting Life after work. I needed a backup pair for today and figured... You know. Might as well step it up.”
Drew smirked. “You picked them for me.”
“I picked them for comfort,” I said. “You’re just a side effect.”
“A very interesting side effect,” he said, reaching out like he might tug the waistband a little further to release me from my prison.
I caught his hand before he could.
“Easy,” I said. “Still not locking a door on a boat with 4 lawyers aboard.”
He sighed dramatically and flopped backward. “This is homophobic.”
“This is not getting caught with our pants down.”
“Still homophobic.”
I laughed, then leaned over him again, the soft hum of fireworks still vibrating through the hull, like the sky hadn't quite finished speaking yet.
We stayed like that for a while, half-sprawled, barely touching, hearts loud in the quiet. Fireworks still popped now and then, distant muffled blooms above the waterline. Shania was long gone.
Then it started: soft piano, echoing like it had all the time in the world.
“When you try your best but you don’t succeed…”
Drew stilled. I exhaled.
“That’s it,” I said under my breath. “it’s Coldplay.”
“Fix You,” he confirmed, head against the pillow. “Every fireworks show thinks it's the first one to use it, but you still know what it means.”
We both did. This was the last song. The wind-down. The final burst of light before the bay went dark and everyone sobered up enough to find their shoes and steer home.
“We should go,” I said, pulling away just enough to smooth my shirt back into place.
Drew nodded, sitting up slower, hair ruffled and lips still a little pink. He didn’t say a word, but he gave me a look, half fond, half reluctant, that made me want to stay
another ten minutes, another hour, another night.
But the music swelled, and above deck, I heard movement, glasses clinking, someone calling for a phone charger. We’d waited long enough.
By the time we emerged back into the salt air, the yacht was already shifting beneath our feet, engines humming low as Sloan attempted to ease us out of the flotilla. City lights glittered ahead, and the last sparks of the finale drifted back to the water like golden snow.
Siena caught us first.
She didn’t say anything right away, just looked up from her seat near the stern and gave me a once-over. Then she held up both index fingers, pointed them toward each other slowly, and raised an eyebrow.
“So you and Drew were…” she gestured again, pointer to pointer. No malice. Just curiosity draped in linen.
I said nothing. Drew behind me didn’t either.
Siena nodded, almost to herself. “Cool,” she said. “Didn’t know you guys were queer.”
Then she popped her earbuds back in and went back to scrolling. We stayed on the deck as we wound our way around a nearly dark Stanley Park until we reached the Lions Gate again, and the lights of North Vancouver came back into view.
As The Mediator docked, the guests slowly trickled off with their sweaters, hugging Sloan and thanking him like they’d just disembarked from a private cruise through Monaco.
Phillip clapped Drew on the shoulder. “Uber’s already pinged. You coming with me or what?”
Drew shook his head casually. “Nah, I’m heading to Samir’s. We were gonna play Smash Bros.”
Phillip frowned slightly. “It’s late.”
“Yeah, we’re just crashing after a few. I’ll text you when I’m there.”
Phillip looked over at me like I was an unexpected plot point. “You driving him?”
I nodded. “I’m heading back that way anyway.”
“Alright,” Phillip said, already distracted. “Thanks for coming, Charles.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for having me.”
Phillip wandered off toward his Uber Black, already scrolling through email.
Ten minutes later, we were back together in my truck, parked under a sodium lamp just outside the marina gates. The windows were down. The air still smelled like salt, beer, and whatever sweat a linen shirt traps after five hours in the sun.
“You really going to Samir’s?” I asked, plugging in my phone.
Drew leaned back, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. “Not a chance.”
I glanced over.
‘We’ll drive down Samir’s street and I’ll put my phone in airplane mode so location will get locked there, my dad probably won’t notice.”
I blinked. “You’ve done this before.”
“Please. I could write the manual.” He looked over, smirking. “Don’t worry, I’ll turn it back on after breakfast. That’s the trick. You gotta give the illusion of honesty.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“You’re into it,” he smiled.
I didn’t give him an answer, just put the truck in gear and pulled onto the road.
The ride up to Montroyal was silent, but not tense. Just muted, like the night had wrung out all the adrenaline, leaving nothing but residual warmth and a low thrum of wanting more.
I pulled into the curb just past a wide sloped driveway that disappeared into a lit garage, carved straight into the side of the hill. The house above it was where you knew the wine was labeled and the Wi-Fi never cut out, sprawling, west-coast modern, with an upper secondary balcony framed by aluminum and glass.
“So this is Samir’s?” I asked, putting the truck in park.
Drew smirked. “Yeah, he won’t notice your truck if he’s still awake.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, sent a quick message, and swiped airplane mode on.
“There,” he said, tossing it into the console. “Location frozen. Parental illusion maintained.”
I shook my head. “You sure you’re not going into law?”
“I’d rather eat a filing cabinet.”
He sat there for a beat longer, looking at the house. Then looked at me like it was time to leave. I turned the truck around, the tires humming as we coasted back downhill, streetlights catching in streaks along the hood.
As we passed the exit for CapU, the thought of him going there in September popped back into my head.
“So... Cap University?” I said, keeping my tone light. “If you got accepted into UBC, we could’ve spent one year there together.”
Drew snorted. “Who said I applied?”
“Why didn’t you? Your dad probably could’ve pulled those Alumni strings easily with his name.”
A pause. Then: “Because he wanted me to.”
That landed with more weight than I expected.
“He expected law, of course,” Drew went on. “UBC Arts as a feeder. Summer internships at the firm. Uncle Gerry was ready to write the cheque for a new lecture hall in Allard Hall if it came to that.”
“You didn’t want it?”
“I didn’t want it handed to me.”
I watched the road. “So, architecture instead.”
“At Cap, yeah. I wanted to build things. Real things. Not... arguments.”
He looked out the window. “I think he still thinks I’ll grow out of it.”
I didn’t answer immediately, I just drove. We crossed the Ironworkers Memorial Bridge, the city lights unfurled below us again, burnt amber and cold neon, Vancouver proper in full mid-summer glow.
By the time we pulled into a parking space beside my building, the night had gone quiet in that particular East Van way: distant siren, someone’s bass bleeding through a wall, the hum of halogen streetlights that made everything look a little yellower than it really was.
My apartment sat in a squat three-story low-rise that might’ve been white once, now more the color of sidewalk slush. Even in the dark, you could tell the stucco needed a good pressure wash, and probably a better property manager.
Drew didn’t comment on it, but I felt it. The contrast. The shift from sloped driveways and deck lights to cracked pavement and humming AC units in the windows next door.
I almost made a joke. Almost apologized. But he followed me inside without hesitation.
The elevator creaked like it had opinions, and the hall light on my floor flickered once as we stepped out. I unlocked the door and pushed it open with the side of my hip.
“It’s not a yacht,” I muttered. “But it’s got running water and two working outlets in the living room.”
Drew looked around once as I flicked the light on. The living room straight ahead. Kitchenette to the right. Bookshelf, keys on a hook, a fan pointed vaguely at the couch like it gave up halfway through the summer.
“You want water?” I asked, already moving toward the kitchen.
“Nope,” Drew said.
I turned. He was already closing the door behind him.
Then he was walking toward me, fast, steady, no hesitation, and before I could say anything else, his hands were at my sides and his mouth was on mine.
No buildup. No questions. Just the relief of privacy, like everything he’d been holding back all night had finally been cleared for release.
I dropped the keys on the counter without looking. His body pressed into mine, shirt half-untucked, fingers finding the hem of my collar.
The sound of the street outside fell away.
Drew didn’t utter a word as I backed us toward the bedroom. His hand stayed at the small of my back, thumb brushing under my shirt hem like it was a rhythm he’d already memorized.
The door creaked as I pushed it open with my foot. The room was small, with a bed, an IKEA lamp, a desk, and one window with the blind half-down, but it was mine.
I flicked the light off. Let the city outside tint the room with low amber and shadow.
Drew pulled his shirt over his head without ceremony, linen rustling as it hit the pillow. The lines of his chest caught the light in soft edges, young and sharp and careless. I stepped back just long enough to tug my polo over my head and toss it onto the desk chair.
He kicked off his shorts. Spongebob PSDs, bright yellow and ridiculous, clinging to his hips like they knew the punchline.
I followed, pushing my cargo shorts down, revealing the 2UNDR blue camo. I caught him looking.
“Told you,” he said, stepping closer. “You picked those to match my energy.”
We didn’t rush.
No fireworks this time. No playlist bleeding through walls.
Just two guys in boxer briefs in a half-dark room, letting everything they'd been avoiding all night finally settle.
I let my hands rest at his hips, the elastic of those SpongeBob briefs stretching slightly under my thumbs. His breath slowed as I stepped in fully, until we were chest to chest, stomach to stomach, warmth layered on warmth.
He tilted his face up to mine and kissed me again, deeper this time. Less urgent. More certain.
My hands moved up, tracing his back, mapping the shape of him like it might change. He pulled me closer until the fabric between us was all that remained. Every shift of our bodies made it more obvious how little was left in the way.
When we finally broke the kiss, he didn’t speak. He just walked backward toward the bed, eyes locked on mine, then sat down and pulled me with him.
The mattress dipped beneath our weight. Legs tangled. Hands found the edges of things.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my boxer briefs and looked up at me, not asking permission, just checking. That half-second of space before everything shifted.
I nodded.
He peeled them down, slow but sure, and I did the same to him. The air between us sharpened. It was just as erotic as I remembered it in his bedroom, fully erect, twitching, and he had already leaked into the white interior of his briefs.
Then we were in it. Not fumbling, not choreographed. Just real. Messy kisses. Soft gasps. Breath against the collarbones. Hands exploring with a kind of awe.
He kissed me again, and shifted, rolling us sideways across the mattress until I landed half on top of him, chest rising against chest.
We were already almost naked, skin against skin, sweat barely dried from the earlier rush. Drew’s breath slowed as he curled next to me, his fingers idly tracing the curve of my mountain biker thighs like he wasn’t done, not even close.
“Okay,” I said, voice low.
Drew glanced up at me, grinning. “Yeah?”
“Remember the fireworks?”
“The literal ones? Or the...”
“The first song,” I cut in. “Summer of ‘69.”
He blinked. Then smirked. “Oh my god.”
I leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “I mean... if we wanted to pick up where we left off.”
He laughed, half in disbelief. “That’s what you’re going with, Bryan Adams?”
“You got a better idea?”
“No complaints,” he said, already shifting under the sheets. “Just know this will live in my brain forever as the most literal sex I’ve ever had.”
I laughed, softly, disbelieving, and kissed him again, just to shut him up. But he didn’t refuse.
I shifted first, sliding down over him without overthinking it. Drew watched me, that grin still tugging at his mouth, then reached for me, easy, wordless, like he’d been waiting for me to make the first move.
Everything fell into place, shoulders, thighs, lips, like choreography we hadn’t practiced but somehow knew.
His breath caught the second I touched him with my mouth. Mine did too.
It wasn’t perfect. His knee bumped into something. The bed creaked. My elbow landed somewhere dumb. But none of it mattered.
We were in sync.
Every gasp felt like a note from that goddamn song. Every flick of tongue and hum of pleasure, a chorus we didn’t know we’d memorized.
With a silent nod of understanding, I took the plunge, my mouth engulfing Drew's hard length. He mirrored the motion, his own mouth enveloping me in a warm, wet embrace. The sound of our breaths mingled with the occasional muffled groan, and the feeling of his tongue against me was almost too much to handle. Our movements grew more urgent, hips rocking in a silent symphony of pleasure.
My hand found the base of his cock, adding a gentle pressure as I took him deeper. Drew's grip on my thigh tightened in response, and I knew we were both close. The tension coiled between us, tight and urgent, a shared crescendo that drowned out the creak of the bed, the hum of the city, everything but the sound of his breath
With a gentle tug, I pulled down the elastic of Drew's Spongebob boxer briefs, exposing the soft mound of his balls. He gasped as the cool air hit his heated skin. Our pace quickened, driven by the heady rush of desire and the need to reach that sweet release.
His hand tightened around my shaft, stroking in time with my mouth's caress on him. Our bodies moved in unison, hips rising in silent demand, as we approached our pinnacle. And then, with a sudden burst of pleasure, we both reached the peak simultaneously, our orgasms crashing into one another like waves on a stormy shore. Drew's cock pulsed in my mouth, filling it with his succulent nectar, as I released my load into his throat. The intensity of our climax left us both trembling, our bodies slick with sweat and the evidence of our passion.
Neither of us said much after. Just breath and skin and the sound of the fan stuttering through the heat.
I reached down and pulled up my underwear, cool stretch against warm skin. Drew did the same, slow and lazy, like he might drift off mid-motion.
We shifted beneath the covers, not tangled, just close, the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for anything more right now.
His bare shoulder brushed mine. He let out a soft breath.
“You glad you came now?” he asked, one last time.
“Mmhmm.” I finally gave him a direct answer.
He was asleep before I could ask anything else.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time after that. The room smelled like us. Like July. Like something I wasn’t sure I’d be able to let go of when the sun came back.
