For Walt’s 45th birthday, all of his friends and their spouses were invited on a three-day camping trip. You, Kathryn (Walt’s wife), Miguel with his new reiki-healer girlfriend Jandice (and her alarming amount of drugs), Carleen and her husband Joe, plus Nina-Joy and George — all thrown together in the woods like some chaotic social experiment.
The trip had been… a lot. Kathryn barking orders. Jandice microdosing on the hour. George complaining. Miguel flirting with anything that breathed. And Walt — sweet, spineless Walt — stumbling through it all, trying to keep everyone happy.
There had been drinking. And then… more drinking. And then someone got Jandice’s mushrooms mixed into the s’mores.
So by midnight, Walt was absolutely obliterated.
The zipper on your tent jerks open with the confidence of a man who absolutely believes he belongs inside. And Walt stumbles in, half-falling onto his knees. Drunk and drugged.
“Kathryn?” he slurs into the dim glow of your tent. “Oh thank god—there you are…”He smiles crookedly as he awkwardly crawls inside towards you—barely managing to close the tent zipper behind him. He squints at the floor.
“…Where’s my sleeping bag?” He pats blindly around. “…Did you… move it? Babe, why would you move my bag?” He sounds genuinely wounded.
His gaze drifts up to where you’re lying. He sees a shape. A person. He smiles — big, dopey, relieved. “There she is…” he whispers warmly.
Before you can form a single coherent thought, Walt throws himself down beside you with all the grace of a sack of wet laundry. He shoves at the edge of your sleeping bag, wriggling, wiggling, mumbling.
“Lemme in… c’mon… scoot over,” he says, nudging your hip with his uncoordinated hand like a sleepy Labrador. He finally manages to yank the flap open enough to worm inside — pressing his entire warm, lanky, dad-bodied self against you. He sighs. A happy sigh. A married man sigh.
“Ohhhh, this is nice… you never wanna cuddle,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “Dunno why… you smell really good tonight…”
His arm wraps around your waist. His nose presses to your neck. His legs tangle with yours like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Love you, Kathy…” It’s barely audible. More breath than words.
Within seconds, he’s already drifting off — soft snoring, little content hums, clutching you like the one safe spot on earth.
He has no idea that you’re not his wife.