Page 65 of Pucked Up

The lobby was too warm and smelled like scorched coffee and industrial-grade air freshener. A real ficus tree wilted in a corner, succumbing to winter's lack of light. It stood beside a rack of tri-fold brochures advertising waterfall hikes and kayak rentals that no one would take this time of year.

At the front desk, a bored woman in a red vest asked for my ID. Her name tag read,"Debbie – Here to Help!"but nothing about her face suggested she was likely to follow through.

"Just one night?"

"Maybe longer."

She glanced between us. Seeing the single bag each, unshaven jawlines, and the way we didn't stand too close but also didn't look at each other like strangers, she understood more than our voices could tell her.

"We've got a king on three. Elevator's to your left. All I need is a card."

I slid mine across the counter. She typed on the keyboard, keys clacking like a manual typewriter. I heard the printer spit out our receipt and then the mechanical whir of the key card machine.

She handed two of them over with the kind of forced brightness reserved for tips she knew she wouldn't get.

"There you go, gentlemen. Room 314. Wi-Fi password's on the sleeve."

I muttered a thanks and took the cards. Noah hadn't spoken at all. He merely shifted his weight and kept his eyes on a framed photo of Lake Superior above the coffee station.

Next, we headed toward the elevator. I felt the desk clerk's eyes on our backs, accompanied by the weight of her quiet assumptions.

To her, we probably looked like a cliché. Two men showing up late with tension clinging to their coats like snowflakes. One bruised and the other exhausted. I wondered whether she thought we were here to fuck or to fight. Maybe both.

The elevator rattled once on the way up. Noah didn't flinch. He stood with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward like he was counting the floors in his head. I stayed quiet, too. I didn't trust my voice not to spill everything building inside me.

We stepped out on three. It had beige carpet, patterned with some geometric rust-and-gold design that probably hadn't changed since the nineties. The air up here was drier and staler. Someone had microwaved something fishy recently, and the smell lingered.

Room 314 was halfway down the hall. I waved the key card over the lock. The light blinked red once, then green.

The room greeted us with silence. The curtains were drawn and stiff. A flat-screen TV was bolted to the dresser beneath a laminated sheet of channel options.

Lamps with plastic bases stood guard in the corners. Somebody made the bed with mechanical precision—hospital corners.

It was one king bed, precisely as requested. I hadn't asked Noah if that was okay, but we'd fallen into a pattern of sleeping together every night at the cabin.

I dropped my bag in the corner and sat at the edge of the mattress. Noah walked past me, kicking his shoes off without ceremony.

Neither of us had said a word since the truck.

I peeled off my coat and let it slump to the floor. The hum of the mini fridge under the TV filled the space, soft and steady like it was the only thing breathing.

Noah didn't move. He stood at the window and pulled the curtain partway open, one hand resting on the sill like he couldfeel the cold through the glass. The backs of his jeans were dusted white with road salt.

I watched him for too long.

Then, I stood.

He didn't turn when I walked over. Didn't flinch when I pressed my chest to his back. He exhaled, like his lungs had been holding air for hours and finally remembered how to let go.

I slid my hand up beneath his shirt, my palm connecting with warm skin. His breath hitched, but he didn't speak. He didn't need to.

This wasn't about ceremony. It wasn't about need in the way soft things needed comfort and warmth. It was need the way cliffs needed erosion. Slow destruction, piece by piece, until what was left was sharper and more beautiful than what had come before.

He turned, and we collided.

No preamble. No finesse.

His mouth hit mine with the kind of force that made my teeth knock. I didn't care. I bit his lower lip, and he let me. He shoved me back toward the bed, one hand gripping the front of my shirt, the other already pulling at the waistband of his jeans.

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