The Next Step
(HANK)
The storm blew itself out around 6:00am. Hours of screaming wind and forty-foot swells. The Pioneer held. She always does. But nothing comes through something like that without wounds.
I know because I was awake. With Noah in my arms. Asleep. He was quiet, barely making a sound as he slept on my chest. I simply stared at his resting face, listening to the silence after the storm. With him.
Before it had to end.
I've been on deck since 08:00, doing the walk. Assessing the damage. It's my job. My rig. My responsibility. Even though I didn’t want to leave my bunk. Or him.
Log Entry. 2003-07-12 Day 1,309.
Structural walkway on the port side is buckled. Two handrails torn clean off. The portside crane took a hit—cable snapped, boom looks twisted. We'll need a full inspection before it runs again. Scattered equipment everywhere. Fuel drum broke loose, dented to hell. No leak, thank God.
The men are shaken. I won’t put that in the report, but I see it. Dex is quiet for once. The new kid—Parker—looks like he hasn't slept. He’s been here only a few days and already he looks beat. Most of the guys are still in their bunks, catching what rest they can before the cleanup starts.
I’m shaking for a different reason.
Cleanup. That's the real work now. Twelve hours minimum of hauling, securing, welding, repairing. I need every hand I can get. But I need smart hands. Eyes I trust to spot the things I might miss. Because I am not focused. I know it. I’m still thinking about last night. The warmth. The intensity. The explosion. Nothing to do with the storm.
I thought about assigning Dex to lead the deck crew. He's strong, experienced. But his eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be. He gets tunnel vision. Sees the big problems, misses the small ones that turn into big problems later.
I'm putting Evans on it. He's been here just over three weeks. The crew might grumble. Let them. He's got the sharpest eyes on this rig. I've watched him work. He sees everything—the loose bolt, the hairline crack, the frayed edge of a cable. And he doesn't say nothing, unless he's sure. That's rare. That's valuable.
I'll pair him with me. Walk the deck together. Hit the critical spots first—the crane, the walkways, the wellhead area. Let him shadow me, take notes, hand me tools. It's not a special assignment. It's just good management. Using the best eyes for the job.
That's what I'll tell myself, anyway.
After a storm like that, with the sea trying to tear us apart as we came together finally, I want to see his face. I want to know he's solid. I want to hear that low hum of his while he works, steady and calm. The truth is... I want him close.
It broke me apart to leave the bed this morning. He looked at me with the exact look I felt: the what do we do now look. But neither of us vocalized it. We both know we have to act normal.
And I’ll pretend I’m not feeling more.
He's not Jim. I know that. But the feeling—that quiet steadiness—it's the same. It's the thing I thought I'd never feel again.
Operational Assessment: Port crane out of service pending inspection. Structural damage to walkway sections 4 and 7. Fuel drum containment requires replacement. Estimated repair time: 10-12 hours with full crew.
Personnel Note: Evans. Assigned to damage assessment detail. His eyes are sharp. His hands are steady. I trust him.
End Log.
By the time I got back to my cabin it was after midnight. I sent Evans to his bunk after focusing on cleanup all day. There was a different look he gave me. Like he’d never see me again. I pulled him aside and told him he needed rest. And I’d see him in the morning. He smiled at me and I practically melted. His eyes looked watery. And I just nodded and he knew. At least, I hoped he knew. That there was more to come. At least, I hoped there was more to come. We just had to figure it all out without any suspicions.
That’s why I can’t sleep. After last night, and the day, it’s like he’s with me, where ever I go now on this rig.
I peel off my clothes and climb back into my bed in just my underwear, aware of the lingering smell of my little gymnast which immediately hardens my tool. I stretch out, still picturing him naked on me. I can feel him on me. I can feel myself in him. I take a deep breath and I catch his scent still. Without a second thought, I reach for my journal.
July 13th, 2003
He is everywhere. He’s left a mark on me. Like I see him, feel him. His presence. His shadow. In everything I do and everywhere I go I am reminded of him.
I thought of him as I stared at the steam from the coffee in the mess hall. His smile came to mind as I studied the condensation on the cold pipes overhead. Everywhere I looked, I saw him. I closed my eyes against the diesel fumes and I saw him easily in my thoughts—remembering the water sliding down the carved stone of his chest in that damn hallway the first time I saw his body. I stared at a pressure gauge, watching the needle hold steady, and my mind conjured the sharp, perfect line of his hips, stripped from his underwear at my fingers as my own body slammed into him.
My rig. My world of steel and procedure and noise now holds something else. There’s this beautiful, quiet, former gymnast who hums when he works, who moans when he’s excited, who smells like heaven, and tastes like sweet fruit.
He’s out there right now. In his cabin. Asleep in his bed. I can feel him like a change in the barometric pressure. My eyes found him today without my permission. I watched him secretly in everything he did. Even in the bulky coveralls, I can see the efficient way he moves. No wasted energy. Pure, focused strength. I know every curve of his body now. Distractingly so. His form is optimal for the confined spaces. And he embraced every inch of me with ease.
I stop my pen and feel it moving around my fingers as I stare back at my own words. The pages are filling with this. With things I can’t say out loud. Observations that have nothing to do with drilling. Everything is about drilling. But now nothing is. I hesitate; afraid I’m saying too much.
This is a liability, I think to myself, terrified to write the words down.
It echoes in my head, cold and hard. Liability. A dangerous distraction. I’m the Driller. The man who sees the problem before it becomes a body bag. My focus is the only thing standing between this crew and a thousand ways to die out here. And my focus is shot. It’s fractured. It’s following the sweep of a jawline, the intent furrow of a brow, the icy stare of those eyes, the curve of his ass and the weapon I now know exists between his glorious legs.
Every day will now be a test of willpower. A mantra I repeat with every beat of my heart.
Work. Don’t look. Don’t touch. Don’t feel.
The pressure is building already inside me. I feel it in the air between us, thick and charged.
It’s only a matter of time and I will break.
I smile as I stare back at my words. A hand will brush during a tool hand-off. It won’t be an accident. A conversation in a confined space will tip from the torque specs on a blowout preventer to something else. Something personal. Dangerous. And like last night, I won’t be able to control myself.
I take in a deep breath and let out a loud sigh before I continue writing without fear.
God help me, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to stop. I don’t know if I want to.
I can't focus on the drill string. I can only focus on the memory of a hum in a quiet room and the weight of a man who feels like coming home. This is a liability. It's the worst kind of distraction. I am standing on the edge of the abyss, and for the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of falling. I'm only afraid he won't be there to jump with me. I’m scared to be alone now.
End Log.
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(NOAH)
It’s been two days since I spent the night in his cabin and the silence between us since the storm is driving me absolutely crazy.
We’ve been busy, cleaning up after the storm. There is never a chance to be alone. He’s too busy managing the crew and working overtime to eat with me. I can’t seem to catch him wandering at night any more. I convince myself that it’s because of the storm and the cleanup. But I’m worried that something has changed between us, that he thinks he made a mistake. There’s a pit in my stomach and I’m afraid he too is scared of being found out, of the whispers turning to violence, of seeing that look of regret in his eyes.
Or is he realizing now that it’s not about regret, but about realistic pursuit. Can we really do this, on this rig, amongst all these men? It’s been only once, one glorious stolen moment naked in his cabin, after weeks of feeling safe beside him, of moments with him staring at the sea, of sitting with him in the mess hall, and feeling like he’s the reason why I’m here. But he’s all I can think about. I’m terrified he thinks we made a mistake.
I’m trying to turn my fear into something else, something hot and bright: the thrill of the hunt. His slight smile when he looks at me tells me there is no regret. Him selecting me to be beside him for the past two days as crew lead for the cleanup tells me he is not pushing me away. The way he manages his persona during the day confirms that the other night wasn’t just a one-time thing. He sees me. He’s just trying to figure out how to make this work. That’s what I’m trying to convince myself anyway.
Plus, I’m not just trying to prove I belong on his rig anymore. I’m trying to prove I belong in his arms. I’m trying to unravel him. Every gruff, clipped order is a piece of the puzzle. Is he pushing me away, or is this the only way he knows how to speak? Every lingering glance that he quickly breaks—is that denial, or is it desire fighting its way to the surface?
I know what I want. The memory of his mouth on mine and the way he kissed me has sealed the deal. The feeling of his hands on my skin is a map I trace in my mind every night since his bed. The sensation of his thickness breaching my very innards is still pulsing inside me, along with the remnants of his seed.
The question isn’t what I want. The question is, how do I make this mountain of a man see that we can do this. That he doesn’t need to be scared. How do I get him to open up more, and find the time to discuss what we can do about this situation?
He didn’t come to eat with me again today. I haven’t seen him since my shift ended. I feel a rising sense of panic overtake me as I let my mind take me down that spiral, that voice telling me I was stupid, that he has walled himself up again, that I’m not worth the risk. My brain floods with convincing arguments on why he’s avoiding me as I head to my bunk and grab my shower stuff. I’m a ball of anger as I head to the stalls, oblivious of the time at this point, the emptiness of the lockers, the distant sounds of only a few showers running, and the distinct whistle coming from one of them.
I can feel my frown as I strip and head to the one stall I favor, throwing my towel over the top and reaching in to turn the water on. I rest my head against the outer wall, naked, waiting for the hot water to fill the small stall before I step inside.
I’m a mess now, my mind taking over as I put my hands on the wall and let the water cascade down my neck, travelling over my back muscles as I stare at my feet and wish Hank was in here with me.
I do my best to rid the thoughts that plague me. I spend more time than I should in the shower, letting the hot water calm the tension in my muscles, and finally turn off the water, slipping back the curtain to grab the towel as I hear muffled sounds down at the other end. Instinctively I freeze, the towel at my chin after a face rub, as my ears pick up the sound of someone shushing.
Barely, I hear a whisper. “Shut the fuck up.”
I lean forward and peer beyond the stall of my shower and notice a towel hanging over one, three down from me, that is running. Another towel is slung over the next stall, with a pair of flip flops outside. I take a step out onto the floor and squint as I take in the two showers, side by side, running.
I wait, knowing this scenario only too well.
Then I hear a soft, low breath out, followed by a long, drawn out, “Fuuuuuccccckkkkkk….”
My own dick has a mind of its own and it swells at the thought of what is going on behind one of those two curtains. I glance around, and find the area empty, save for me. I wonder now how long I was in the shower and try my best to move without making a sound.
I hear the whispered voice again. “Turn around.”
I freeze again, staring at the curtain, seeing it move a bit as something bumped it. I caught a glimpse of feet as the curtain billowed, before I heard another whisper.
“Open up babycakes.”
My heart pounded. It was Dex, in there with someone. Still frozen, still rooted to my spot, I waited, hearing the gasp of a second person, higher pitched, and the distinct grunt from Dex as the familiar sound of two bodies fucking in a shower slapped me awake.
Like a moth to a flame I sneak towards the now still curtain. There is a separation between the opening and the curtain. I can see a large body in there, a rippling backside and round ass that is moving, fucking into someone else. I move closer, squinting to peer in, my nose almost to the edge of the shower curtain and see another head, in a fistful of hair. Someone smaller. Blonde. Thin. New.
Parker.
The new kid. Dex is fucking him. In the shower. Water splashing and the sound of his bigger body smacking into the kid. I hear grunts, but Dex pulls Parker’s head back and I see the wild look of pleasure on the smaller guy’s face.
“Yeah. Fuck me Daddy.” Parker moans, with his hands planted on the wall in front of him.
Dex slaps his face hard and I hear the smack before he quiets the kid. “Shhhh! Just fuckin’ take it boy!” he says again and slaps his hard a second time before he hawks out a wad of spit on the newbie’s face, making Parker smile even wider and groan even louder.
When Dex’s free hand clamps over Parker’s mouth I back away fast, almost stumbling over the flip flops on the ground.
I wrap my towel around my waist and cover my thickening cock as I try to quietly move back to the lockers. I grab my stuff and bolt for the exit, rounding the corner with my hands gripping the towel tightly. And of course, there, naked, carrying a towel in his big hand, is the bearded, blonde hunky Sully, heading towards me for the showers.
His smile stretched wide and he stopped, flinging the towel over his wide shoulder, grabbing his own cock on display. “Well, well, well. What’s the rush pretty boy? Did Dex already finish?”
I swallowed hard and took a minute, avoiding looking at his beefy blonde hairy pecs and hardening tool, and let the breath wash over me. “Fuck off Sully. But if you want to know, he’s already doing someone else.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “I’m sure you’re here to join in.”
I went to move past him but he sidestepped me and grabbed my naked shoulders. “Let’s just go back to my bunk. Just us. No Dex. I’ll make you feel real good.” He pulled me closer to him, the smell of the day from him filling my nostrils. His head bent down to move to my lips and the feel of his chest hairs now prickled against my skin. I pushed back against him, shoving him harder than I intended and backed away from his shocked look.
“I said fuck off.”
He held up his two hands. “Easy there little man.” His face actually softened. “Just come back to my room. No one cares. No one will know. Just us, okay? Who’s gonna know what goes on in my room?”
I moved to the locker and quickly grabbed all my things, not even hesitating on putting anything on. “Leave me the fuck alone!” I yelled out, furious with this situation, and longing for Hank to swoop in to save the day.
I bolted out of the locker area and went stumbling into the corridor, letting the door to the showers slam behind me, silencing the water sounds, the slapping of two bodies, Sully’s voice calling after me, all of it. I dropped a flip flop, and my shirt on the floor, and let my own head fall back against the cold wall.
And that’s when it hit me. What I needed to do. How we could do this. My eyes opened as I stared down the empty hallway, still damp and practically naked, holding my clothes against my shaking body.
I know how to let him know that we are on the same page.
Literally.
I practically ran to my own bunk, throwing my armful of clothes down, grabbing a pair of sweats and a fresh tee, shoving them over my body to dress like the Flash. Then my feet carried me without conscious thought. Down the familiar corridor, the hum of the rig a constant companion. His cabin. 3A. The number is etched into my mind. I hesitated, my feet stopping just beyond the wide-open door, like an invitation yet again to enter his room. Was this too much? Was this a violation again?
But the memory of his eyes on me today, the unspoken plea I felt in it, pushed me forward. I stepped right into the open room, the scent of the cabin filling my mind with lustful memories.
The room was empty, filled only with the faint, clean scent of him. And there, in the center of the pillow where I’d once lain with my head on his chest, was the journal.
It wasn’t tucked away this time, or hidden underneath the Pump Maintenance cover. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was no accident, I convince myself. This was a deliberate act of trust so profound it stole my breath. He’d left his very soul on a pillow for me to find. Exactly where I slept on him just a few days before.
I crossed the room, my hands trembling as I let the book fall open to the page that held the pen, as if he was directing me to read only this entry. My eyes fell on the fresh ink and I felt a gut-punch. A beautiful, heartbreaking gut-punch.
This is a liability. It's the worst kind of distraction. I am standing on the edge of the abyss, and for the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of falling. I'm only afraid he won't be there to jump with me. I’m scared to be alone now.
Tears pricked my eyes. This big, gruff, silent man was laid bare on the page. I had confessed to him that I was scared. Now here he was, saying the same thing. The mountain was crumbling. He needs someone to catch him.
I picked up the pen from where it lay inside the book. I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t plan the words. I let my heart guide my hand, writing beneath his words, in a script that was undeniably, uniquely mine.
There is only a liability if there is a perceived weakness or disadvantage. A mountain is solid, despite the scars carved within it. I know how to face a challenge and win gold. I am strong now because I have climbed the mountain. I am not a liability. There is no weakness. I know what I want. And I don’t care anymore what anyone thinks. The mountain doesn't have to stand at the abyss alone. We can jump into it together. Just you and me. Are you ready? As 1…2, 3. Into the sea. At 00:01.
I put the pen down. I left the journal open on the pillow, our two confessions side-by-side. His in a storm of conflicted emotion, mine a steady, sure promise.
It was my answer. My assurance. My invitation.
The door hissed shut behind me, the sound final. The ball wasn't in his court anymore. And for the first time in a long time, I am not afraid. We were on the same side of the abyss now, ready to face whatever came next.
Together.
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