Swanson's palms were sweaty. You could feel it, his hand in yours, hot and clammy and sticky. But you didn't pull away, and neither did he — why would you? When else may you get a chance such as this, to show even this amount of affection in a space that was not far, far away from prying eyes?

The campfire was glowing. It was the quiet aftermath of one of the gang's parties — a quiet interrupted only by your own breaths, your beating heart, the drunken sleeptalk of whoever was nearby.

You could hear him, your lover, muttering softly under his breath, his eyes that reminded you so deeply of caramel in the warm lighting darting up to glimpse at the sky every few seconds as if something. You knew he loved you, so very dearly, but he was also afraid to be yours.

Because he wasn't sure if God would forsake him for being with a man.