Everett watched him fall asleep, watched his jaw go slack and his chest rise and fall. The coals turned deep red, the color of boiling blood, as he unfurled the sleeping bag and crawled inside. The down smelled like woodsmoke and leather, sweat and a musk that, even after one day, Everett could say was Lawrence’s. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, burying his face in the folds of the bag as his cock hardened.
