A Technical Rescue
The first thing I felt was warmth. Not sunlight, though that was already slipping between the blinds, but skin, warm and close, pressed against mine.
Drew was still asleep beside me, curled toward me on his side, breathing slowly. His arm had found its way across my waist sometime in the night, his leg resting just heavy enough on mine to make me forget it was July and already hot.
We’d crashed in our underwear, half-tangled in sheets that barely stayed on the bed. It hadn’t been planned. Just a slow, silent agreement not to say goodbye.
I stayed still for a few more minutes, letting the weight of him hold me in place.
But I couldn’t ignore the time. Not on a Sunday morning, not when I knew he’d eventually have to turn his phone back on and step back into the world. And I had work tomorrow. A uniform to wear. A professional record to keep clean.
“Hey, it’s morning,” I said, nudging his arm gently.
He mumbled into the pillow, then cracked one eye open. His hair was a disaster, the linen shirt from yesterday bunched around one shoulder.
“Is it even eight?”
“Almost nine. We should get you back home soon.”
He rolled onto his back with a groan. “Do I have to wear this napkin again?”
I walked over to the dresser and grabbed the softest thing on top. “Here,” I said, tossing him a crimson t-shirt.
He caught it midair, held it up, and groaned again. “No. Not this one, Charlie. The Banff shirt?”
“You said it was ugly,” I reminded him.
“Because it is ugly,” he said, but he slipped it on anyway. It hung well on him, soft and sun-faded, the bear graphic a little cracked over the chest. He tugged at the hem and shot me a skeptical look. “You wear this out in public?”
“It’s a shirt, not a social contract.”
“I don’t know, Charlie. Between this and your underwear selection, I’m starting to worry.”
I was halfway through grabbing a clean pair of boxers when I realized he was behind me again, peeking over my shoulder into the drawer.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You really are a Hanes guy.”
I glanced down. It was hard to argue. A full drawer of grays, blacks, and the occasional navy. Nothing flashy. Nothing bold. Definitely nothing with a coloured waistband.
“You didn’t complain yesterday,” I said.
“Yeah, but I thought maybe those were like your one nice pair. The going-out underwear.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to rotate pairs like sneakers.”
“You don’t have anything else?” He was still half-laughing, half-appalled. “Not even like... a rogue Calvin Klein someone gifted you? A pattern? A color?”
“My favorite Manmade ones are in the wash,” I offered.
“Oooh,” he said, mock impressed. “Gotta support the Canadian brand.”
He closed the drawer for me and smirked. “You are so lucky you’re hot.”
“Trust me, I don’t rely on underwear like you.” I teased him back and tossed him a pair of clean socks, then headed toward the kitchen.
“C’mon,” I called over my shoulder. “I’m starving. You ever been to Cora Breakfast on Marine?”
“Never heard of it,” he shrugged.
“They have blueberry pancakes that’ll make you think you’ve already left this earth.”
“Sold.”
I snagged my keys off the counter, then paused.
He caught the hesitation and looked up, curious.
“You want to drive?” I asked, jingling the keys in my hand.
His eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”
“You’ve got your license, no N right?”
“Yeah, but, wait, you're letting me drive your truck? Over the Ironworkers?”
I shrugged, leaning on the counter. “You survived Twin Falls. I figure you can handle the Trans-Canada.”
He caught the keys midair with both hands, a little clumsier than he wanted to let on, then looked at them like I’d handed over something ceremonial.
“This is a big deal for you, huh?” I glanced at him. “You keep roasting my underwear, you better prove you can drive like an adult.”
He laughed, but it softened into something smaller, more focused. I could see it behind his eyes, the little jolt of being trusted with something real. Not performative. Not conditional.
“Don’t scratch it,” I added, grabbing my jacket. “I just put in new wiper blades.”
“No promises,” he said, already halfway out the door.
The truck felt different from the passenger side. Higher. Slower. Drew’s posture shifted the second we entered the Cassiar tunnel.
He went quiet when we were in the correct lane. Checked his mirrors twice, hands at ten and two, just like the ICBC Manual.
I said nothing, just watched the curve of his jaw tighten as we climbed the bridge. No headphones. No bullshit.
The Ironworkers always felt too narrow to me, lanes pinched by concrete and freight trucks, with just enough wind to remind you how high over the water you were.
But Drew handled it fine. Better than fine. He didn’t speed. He didn’t show off.
Just drove without issue until we got onto Marine Drive and the restaurant.
The hostess at Cora gave us a table by the window without looking twice. Maybe it was the hour. Or the fact that Drew had combed his hair into something vaguely respectable and was still wearing that cursed Banff shirt like it was a joke only we had left this morning.
He scanned the menu like he’d never eaten in his life.
“Is it bad that I want three different things?”
“Yes,” I said. “You get one. That’s the rule.”
“But the waffle platter has bacon and fruit.”
“Pick a side of the war, Drewby.”
In the end, he ordered both and tried to frame it like he was helping me by “offering bites.”
Our food came fast. Too fast. Like the universe was rushing us out of the moment.
He was quiet for a beat, chewing slowly, eyes on the window like he was somewhere else entirely. I thought he might make another clothing joke, lean back into the easy rhythm we’d fallen into since waking up.
But then he said, “By the way… Did you see those pictures by my nightstand that weekend? The seawall ones?
I blinked. “Yeah.”
“The girl in them…” he started.
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I know,” he said. “But I want to give you one.”
He nudged his fork across the plate, gathering syrup into a swirl, as if it might distract him.
“She was a friend. Kind of. It was complicated.”
“Was it real?”
He paused. “Real enough for the photos. Not real enough to last.”
I waited.
“Her name’s Maddy. We dated for, like, four months? Mostly just to prove I could.” A faint laugh. “Her words, not mine.”
“And after?”
“Maddy figured it out before I did. Or maybe just before I admitted it.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it, but I saw his throat tighten, like it still hit somewhere he hadn’t fully dealt with.
“Did she keep it to herself?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. We still talk sometimes. She’s cool about it. Better than I deserve.”
I didn’t reply. Just watched him as he downed the last of his juice in one long sip.
“Anyway,” he said, voice shifting up half a register. “Didn’t want you thinking I still had a thing for girls.”
He stood and stretched, bones cracking like he’d aged ten years overnight. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said, softer this time.
I nodded. “Let’s get you back before Samir starts texting question marks because your dad is asking him where you are.”
I drove with the windows down, the July air already warming up. He didn’t put the music back on. Neither of us said much. That easy silence still hung between us, but now it felt like we were trying not to pop a soap bubble.
I pulled up two blocks from Samir’s, where I thought the bus to Lonsdale would stop.
“You good from here?” I asked.
“Yeah. Probably better if I’m not seen hopping out of your truck in this shirt.”
I glanced at the Banff logo. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I’ll never return it. Salvation Army probably wouldn’t even take it,” he said.
Then he leaned across the console and kissed me, quick, soft, just the corner of my mouth. Nothing anyone would notice. Nothing loud.
But it was more than a joke.
It was normal.
And that made it dangerous.
I stayed still. Just watched him climb out of the truck, the door shutting with a dull thud that felt heavier than it should’ve, like it shook the whole truck, even if it didn’t.
His posture shifted as he walked toward the bus stop. Less relaxed. More guarded. Like he was bracing for something he hadn’t quite been through yet.
When I got back home, I barely had time to shower before Soraya started texting:
Soraya: I bought you a ticket online. You’re coming to the new Smurfs movie.
Soraya: Popcorn and Sprite included. You still owe me for ditching the Whitecaps.
Soraya: Also, the AC there barely works, and I’m dressed like a Persian auntie with boundaries. I’m not sweating alone for blue CGI.
I didn’t have the energy to argue with her. Just gave her a thumbs up back and headed back out the door.
Sunday afternoon traffic was light over Lions Gate, and Park Royal Mall was already full of kids hopped up on sugar and parents pretending not to lose it.
Soraya was waiting with a family-sized popcorn and one raised eyebrow.
“You’re lucky I believe in second chances,” she said as I slid into the seat next to her.
“You say that like I didn’t just survive a morning of breakfast judgment and underwear drawer shaming,” I said, sighing.
She narrowed her eyes. “Ah. So it was that kind of yacht.”
I gave her a look.
She held up her hand. “I don’t want details. I want silence. Until the Smurfs have spoken.”
“That’s not a sentence a grown woman should say out loud.”
“Tell that to my disappointment over Smurfs 1. This is my closure.”
I smushed a handful of popcorn into my mouth and lay back.
Monday morning came with the usual park radio chatter, reports of trail congestion, a bear sighting near Rice Lake, and a call from Base that got Dean’s attention before he’d finished his 10:30 coffee.
“Solo hiker somewhere below Twin Falls Bridge. Not injured, no 911 call, but she’s stuck. Slipped on loose gravel near the bluff below the east ridge.”
I looked up from my gear. “Rope job?”
“Yeah. Steep angle, loose footing. She’s wedged herself in a pocket of rock and can’t climb out.”
I clipped on my harness. “Cool. Thought I might go a whole Monday without repelling down a cliff.”
Dean gave me an eye, but he was already tightening his vest. “You coming to help or not?”
By the time we reached the ridge, the woman was visible, crouched low, maybe fifteen feet down a loose granite slope, clinging to a notched bit of rock like she was trying to disappear into it. Her daypack was wedged awkwardly behind her.
“Trail’s got zero containment here,” Dean muttered, scanning the slope. “One bad step, and she’d be in the trees.”
“Not exactly the photo-op she was hoping for,” I said, unpacking our rope kit.
I moved to a thick alder near the bluff edge, gave the base a kick, then ran the anchor strap around it. “This’ll hold?”
Dean nodded. “If it doesn’t, I’m blaming you in the report.”
“As usual.”
We laid out the ropes, checked carabiners, gloves, and backup belay. The slope wasn’t vertical, but it was just steep and crumbly enough to eat someone alive if they panicked.
“Okay,” I said. “You want lead?”
“Yeah. I’ll go down. You spot from here and handle the comms.” Dean took a deep breath.
I clipped in and fed the rope through the belay. “Give her the 'don’t move' speech again first. I don’t want her shifting her weight mid-lift.”
Dean nodded and called out. “Hey! Park Rangers! We’re coming down to you, okay? Just stay put and don’t try to climb. We’ll do all the moving.”
“Okay!” she called back. Her voice sounded breathy but steady. “Sorry! I didn’t think it would get this steep so fast!”
Dean clipped in and stepped over the edge, dropping in controlled half-steps, his boots crunching into the bedrock. I watched his descent, counting each foot of slack and feeling the tension in the rope like it was wired to my own spine.
Once he reached her, they exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear. She laughed. Dean didn’t.
“Everything okay, Delta One?” I radioed.
“All good,” he replied. “She’s just relieved. And very... chatty.”
“Uh-huh.” I grinned into the mic. “Need me to tell your wife how grateful she is?”
“Shut up and lower the backup rope, Three.”
With both of them safely back up top, the woman, Taylor, from Kits, senior analyst, training for her third Tough Mudder, thanked us more times than was strictly necessary.
Especially Dean.
“You were so calm,” she said. “I think I would’ve just panicked and slid all the way down if it weren’t for you.”
Dean adjusted his cap, clearly uncomfortable. “Just doing my job.”
“Seriously, you saved my morning.” she sighed, still looking at him.
“Happy to help,” I said, stepping in before she asked for his number. “Dean here specializes in cliffs and awkward exits.”
Dean gave me a glare that said ‘You're pushing it’, but I could see the edge of a smile.
We finished coiling the rope and stowing our gear after she walked off. The ridge had emptied, the sun just starting to burn off the last of the morning haze.
Dean wiped sweat from his neck with his sleeve and took a long drink from his water bottle.
“Hey,” he said, “you catch the fireworks Saturday?”
I glanced over. “Yeah. Got a decent view.”
He gave me a sideways look. “From where?”
“Just under the Burrard Bridge, in the marina.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Fancy.”
I shrugged. “Someone invited me. Got lucky with the angle.”
“Must’ve been nice.”
“It was.” I paused. “Clear sky. Quiet water. Not too crowded. Good company.”
Dean didn’t say anything right away. Just tightened a strap on his pack and looked out toward the trees.
“Glad someone had a weekend, Oliver is still in his terrible twos,” he said, half-yawning.
I nodded like I knew what it was like to have kids, shouldered my gear, and started walking.
The rest of the week blurred.
Paperwork. Trail reports. A surprise facility inspection that ate up most of Wednesday.
Drew and I texted in pockets, nothing deep, just the usual thread of memes, inside jokes, and the occasional “you up?” sent at inappropriate hours with no expectations.
I didn’t push. He didn’t withdraw.
Whatever we were, it still felt easy.
Thursday, around lunch, he texted:
Drew: Emergency. I’m down to my last respectable pair of briefs. Meet me at Park Royal Zumiez after work?
And just like that, we were back in sync.
Park Royal’s Zumiez smelled like synthetic fabric and the ghost of a thousand regrettable cologne samples.
Drew was already inside, leaning against a rack of graphic tees, scrolling his phone. He hadn’t noticed me yet.
He’d swapped the Banff shirt for a black muscle tee that clung just enough to remind me of Sunday morning, his arms tan against the fabric, the dip of his collarbone still faintly pink from where my teeth had been.
I cleared my throat.
He looked up, smirked, and pocketed his phone. “Took you long enough. I was about to start trying on beanies just to pass the time.”
“You’d look like a confused snowboarder,” I said.
“I am a confused snowboarder.” He grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the back. “C’mon. We’ve got a mission.”
The underwear wall was a colour assault. PSD, Ethika, DGK: brands I’d only seen on the teens at Twin Falls or on TikTok where twunks showed them off on leg day at Planet Fitness. Fonts usually reserved for monster truck rallies screamed out phrases like ‘Liquid Death’ and ‘Blessed’.
Drew plucked a pair of PSD boxer-briefs off the rack, electric blue with a geometric pattern that probably gave someone a design award in California. "See? This is what happens when you try to have style."
“Adults or Instagram influencers?”
“Same thing.” He tossed them at my chest. “Try them.”
I caught them, thumbing the tag. “Thirty-four dollars? For one pair?”
“You’re a park ranger, not a monk.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Unless that’s your thing now. Ranger Charlie, sworn to celibacy and sad, plain underwear.”
I flicked the hangar back at him. “At least give me my size, I’m not a medium.”
“Oh, wow. Maybe for me then.” He rolled his eyes and grabbed another pair, PSD, gray and white with a big Playboy logo. “At least try these. They’re your uniform, just… hotter.”
I sighed but took them. “If I buy these, will you stop harassing me?”
“No.” He grinned. “But I’ll upgrade my harassment to constructive criticism.”
The fitting room was a cramped closet with a mirror that made my reflection look vaguely jaundiced. I shucked my uniform pants, holding up the PSDs like they might bite me.
Drew’s voice floated under the door: “You alive in there?”
“Regretting all my life choices.” I hollered back.
“That’s the spirit.”
I stepped into them over my underwear. The fabric was stupidly soft, like they’d already been washed a hundred times.
Then a knock.
I cracked the door. Drew stood there, holding up a pair in his size, green PSDs with Rick and Morty. “My turn.”
I blinked. “You’re kidding.”
He shouldered past me into the fitting room, pulling his shirt off. “What, and let you get all the fun?”
The space was not built for two. Drew’s elbow jabbed my ribs as he wriggled out of his khaki shorts, nearly kneeing me in the thigh.
“Jesus, warn a guy,” I muttered, flattening myself against the mirror.
“Relax, it’s not our first rodeo.” He shot me a look over his shoulder, half-naked and wholly unrepentant. “Unless you’re uncomfortable…”
I let out a breath through my nose. “I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just trying not to get banned from the mall in my uniform.”
“Oh please,” he said, stepping into his pair. “They let people walk around in Crocs and pajama pants. We’re the classiest thing in here.”
He turned, checking himself in the mirror, and, not subtly, checking me watching him.
The new briefs hugged his hips like they’d been engineered for it. I looked away just long enough to pretend I wasn’t staring at a blue-haired mad scientist framing his pouch like it was part of the animation budget.
“You’re objectifying me,” he said flatly.
“You invited me to the show.”
“You paid for a ticket.”
“Thirty-four dollars,” I muttered. “I want popcorn and a refund.”
He grinned. “No refunds. But we can grab Orange Julius after this.”
I took off the Playboy's Drew had tossed me and put them back on the hangar. Gray and white, tastefully tacky.
“Too ironic,” I muttered.
“They’re iconic,” Drew countered.
“Yeah, but on a gay guy? It’s giving satire of a satire.”
Outside, I slid them back onto the hook and grabbed a pair in the same size: black with a Batman logo across the thigh and classic Batman in blue and gray bursting through glass.
Drew looked over and snorted. “Wow. Straight out of the Saturday morning cartoon vault.”
“Exactly. No bunny head. No irony. Just a man with unresolved trauma and a grappling hook.”
“So… you.” Drew nodded.
I shrugged. “Better branding.”
We paid, Drew went with Rick and Morty, because of course, he did. I got the Batman briefs and immediately tried to forget I’d just spent $34 plus tax on nostalgia and stretch-blend fabric that only he would ever see.
After stuffing them into a reusable bag, we grabbed Orange Julius and split fries by the escalators like it wasn’t strange to be half-flirting while shopping for underwear in a suburban mall.
Drew didn’t bring up the yacht party again. I didn’t ask.
We didn’t make any plans. But the energy was still there, sharp, low-key charged, like we were riding a current that neither of us wanted to break by naming it.
By the time I settled in at home that night, the briefs were folded into the top drawer like they’d always belonged, and I told myself it didn’t matter that we didn’t text after.
That Saturday, I promised my cousin Julie I would help with moving from Burnaby to a new townhouse in Langley, which meant I’d volunteered the only two things I owned that made me useful: a truck and a spine that hadn’t given out yet.
We’d spent the whole morning loading a U-Haul back at her rental in Burnaby. Three flights of stairs, no elevator, a couch that didn’t fit through the door unless you rotated it and swore in multiple languages.
Now I was behind the wheel of the U-Haul, following my truck, driven by Julie, down Highway 1 past open farmland, strip malls, and newly built overpasses. She’d claimed the Colorado because the AC worked better; she was right.
Her new place was in a newer development tucked behind 200th, identical rows of townhomes in slightly different shades of taupe, each with a sliver of front lawn and just enough room for buyer’s remorse.
“End unit,” she called from the sidewalk as I swung the U-Haul in behind her. “Backs onto some dense woods. So, deer sightings and sketchy teenagers. Balance.”
“Modern suburban dream,” I said, climbing out. My shoulders ached, and my shirt was already stuck to my back.
Julie beamed. She was running on caffeine and excitement, her hair twisted up, sunglasses propped on her head, keys jingling like she owned the whole complex.
“You’re unusually quiet,” she said, passing me on her way up the front steps with a box labeled MISC: CANDLES + OLD TAXES.
“I’m sore,” I said. “And your Yankee Candle collection weighs more than your furniture.”
“You’re brooding, CJ.”
“I’m lifting.”
“You’re processing.”
“I’m regretting helping you move.” I huffed.
She smirked. “Helping me move is still payback for cutting the head off my favourite My Little Pony.”
I grunted. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“You haven’t checked your phone once,” she added, less teasing now.
I stayed quiet.
We got the couch through the door after three failed attempts and one moment of sheer, physics-defying willpower. By the time the sun slipped behind the rooftops, most of her furniture was inside, the last box was on the floor, and I was down to half a Gatorade and a faint headache.
“I say we order pizza,” Julie declared, dramatically flopping onto the couch she’d made me carry up the stairs three times.
“Of course you do,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “The sacred, post-move carb ritual.”
“It’s tradition.” Julie glared at me.
“It’s predictable.” I retorted.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to say donairs, aren’t you?”
“Donairs are superior,” I said. “Like gyros, but with more sauce discipline.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “But you’re paying, since you ruined my nostalgic moment of finally eating pizza from Chuck E. Cheese again .”
I placed the order. Chicken and beef mix, extra garlic sauce, two cans of lemon San Pellegrino because Julie liked to pretend she was fancy when it came in a can.
By the time we sat on overturned boxes and used an unopened curtain rod as a footrest, my phone buzzed and showed the previous messages.
Drew: Wonder what you’re up to rn.
Drew: Also, I’m heading to Winnipeg on Wednesday to visit my mom during the BC Day Long Weekend.
Drew: BTW, Dad’s firm is having their summer party at Gerry’s place the weekend after the holiday. Dad suggested I invite you because ‘Charles seemed like a good influence.’ Mebbe bring your gf as a plus one, open bar if that helps.
Then a fourth notification popped: Instagram DM. One of those ‘’View Once’ disappearing pics.
I opened it before I even thought twice.
It was Drew. Shirtless. Fresh out of the shower, hair damp and curling at the edges. He was wearing the Rick and Morty briefs from Zumiez, low on his hips, the waistband twisted just enough to look like an accident.
The lighting was soft and golden, catching the slope of his collarbone and the shadow under his ribs. He was biting his lip. Not in a pouty way, more like he knew exactly what the hell he was doing.
One second.
Then two.
His thumb was hooked in the waistband like he might pull it lower…
I tried to screenshot it, the screen went blank, then: Photo expired.
I blinked. My thumb hovered over the black screen, like maybe I’d catch a reflection I missed.
I exhaled hard through my nose, pulse louder than it should be, resting after a long move.
“Who’s got you sighing at your phone? Spill CJ.” Julie prodded.
I shook my head. “Just missed something I wanted to keep.”
She looked at me sideways but didn’t press.
I took a long sip of Limonata and focused on chewing, thinking about how I still needed to drop Julie off back in Burnaby to drive her car to the new place.
Sunday afternoon came quietly after finally sleeping in. I did laundry, quietly ignored Dean posting pictures of his son Oliver to the ranger group chat, and walked along the Greenway behind my apartment long enough to pretend I wasn’t thinking about Drew going to Winnipeg.
When I got back around four, I texted Soraya.
ME: I need that favour from you.
SORAYA: Oh no. Who died or got engaged?
ME: Law firm party. Second Saturday in August. Drew’s dad’s firm. British Properties. Catered. Fancy.
SORAYA: Why me?
ME: Because you’re my most believable cover.
There was a long pause. Then three dots. Then nothing. Then three dots again.
SORAYA: What’s in it for me?
ME: Open bar.
SORAYA: Text me the dress code.
I put my phone face down, leaned back on the couch, and let the window fan breeze over me.
Outside, the summer heat hadn’t broken. The light coming through the blinds was the kind that made everything look a little washed out and faded, like it had been through too many rinse cycles.
I survived the underwear wall at Zumiez. Survived hauling furniture across Metro Vancouver. Survived losing the disappearing photo.
I’ll survive pretending the distance between here and Manitoba doesn’t sting.
But right now, I was lining up cover stories for parties I shouldn’t be going to, standing beside people I wasn’t supposed to care about.
It wasn’t a rescue for Ranger Charlie, not really.
But it looked enough like one to everyone else to still explain my presence in Drew’s life.
And for now, that was all everyone needed an explanation for.
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