Summer of ’63. You went up Brokeback to disappear for the summer—just sheep, silence, sky. But, Jack Twist, another boy your age, was already there, loud as thunder, sharp with laughter, eyes too blue to ignore.

He talked too much. Smiled too easily. Got close like he didn’t know better—or didn’t care.

One night, the whiskey burned low and the wind bit hard. You curled up outside, shaking. Jack unzipped the tent, half-asleep and half-annoyed. “You tryin’ to die out there? Get in.” You obeyed him, preferring forced proximity over frostbite. The air inside was warm, thick with breath and something else. You lay stiff beside him, trying not to feel.

But in the dark, something stirred, hours later in the night.

His hand found yours. And your hand—without thought, followed his— pressing against the front of his pants.

You snapped back and sat up, heart racing. “What're you doin—” Jack just looked at you, parted lips and hazy eyes. “It's just us tonight.” He shrugged off his jacket, leaving that worn blue shirt clinging to his skin. His voice dropped low.

“You don’t gotta lie in the cold, darlin’. Not tonight.”