Page 49 of Ship Happens

“Oof!” Jacob grunts again as Owen’s foot makes hard contact with his groin.

“Are you okay?” Owen tries to pick himself up, but the towels spill from underneath him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jacob winces for a bit before he relaxes. “This might be the first time I’m grateful I don’t have balls.”

“I’m so sorry, Jacob.” Owen does his best to pull himself out of the laundry cart, but he can’t find the room to maneuver in the tight closet, not until Jacob offers him a hand. “Thanks.”

In one fluid movement, Owen’s pulled out of the cart with nowhere to land except face-first into Jacob’s chest. It’s like he’s living in a slapstick routine. Jacob’s chest was always a favorite of the most primal caveman parts of Owen’s brain. He used to love burying his face in Jacob’s pecs, whether it was in a sexual context or not, nose pressed against Jacob’s skin and breathing him in deeply.

Owen looks up at him, grateful for the darkness of the room, otherwise the beet-red color of his face would be way more obvious. Then Jacob starts to laugh. Not at Owen, just at the absurdity of the moment. And Owen feels the shame and embarrassment leave his body, Jacob’s hands coming more firmly around him. Jacob’s laughter is infectious, and before too long, Owen is joining him, even daring to let his head fall forward, resting it on Jacob’s shoulder as he breathes in the warm sound of Jacob’s giggles.

It’s so right that it hurts, as though Owen belongs next to Jacob like this, slotting perfectly against Jacob’s body.

“You think we’re in the clear?” Jacob asks, Owen only able to focus on the rise and fall of his chest, how warm their open-mouthed breathing has made the room.

Even in the darkness, Jacob’s eyes seem to light up.

He doesn’t want to reply, because he does think they’re finally in the clear, but he doesn’t want this moment to end. Owen wants it to last forever, to be trapped in this room that reeks of mildewy robes and chemicals. It should be one of the last places that Owen wants to spend eternity. And yet, if he got to spend that eternity next to Jacob, he has to figure that it wouldn’t be so bad.

Instead, he says, “Probably.” Pulling away from Jacob finally, Owen watches as the man awkwardly shifts his hand, barely gliding against Owen’s waist. For a moment, just a moment, Owen thinks something is about to happen. His muscle memory takes over, his neck craning, head tilting. Then he hears the click of the door behind him, and he realizes that Jacob was reaching for the doorknob.

Right, Owen thinks. I’m supposed to hate him.

Owen lets out a quiet sigh, only realizing that something is wrong when the clicking of the doorknob continues.

“Jacob?”

“Um . . .” Jacob looks down at him sheepishly, his arm still half-wrapped around Owen’s body as he pushes a bit harder against the door. “I think we’re stuck.”

They’re only trapped for about ten minutes.

But in the dark, cramped room, pressed right against the chest of the man he’s not supposed to have feelings for, ten minutes feels like an eternity to Owen. Thankfully, while they left their phones in their lockers, Jacob didn’t take off his smartwatch. Meaning he’s able to—very slowly—write out a message to Kaitlyn on the limited screen, forced to go letter by letter with his thick finger.

“Can’t you just do the dictation thing?” Owen asks, praying that he’ll speed things up.

“No, uh . . . that stopped working a few years ago, remember?”

Indeed, Owen does remember, when Jacob went to swim at the Y and forgot to take the watch off.

“You still haven’t gotten a new one?” Owen asks.

Jacob shrugs. “You gave me this one.”

Oh. Owen pauses, heart thudding heavy in his chest.

“Jacob?” Kaitlyn’s voice comes in loud and clear from the other side of the door. “Helloooo?” Owen can tell she’s trying to avoid suspicion.

“Here!” Jacob says, knocking. “In here.”

The door handle twists a few times, and for a moment, Owen thinks that Kaitlyn’s going to have to get the spa staff to help her, but then there’s a click and the door opens wide, Kaitlyn standing there to greet them with a sly smile on her face as she takes in the scene in front of her.

“Well, well . . . what’s all this, then?” she asks, putting on a thick Cockney accent, leaning against the doorframe before Owen pushes past her.

“We got stuck,” Owen explains quickly.

“Together . . . in a small . . . cramped . . . closet . . .” She leaves plenty of space for meaning between each of the words.

“Nothing happened,” Jacob insists.