CovenantRoad

Category: Fiction

  • Wound Care

    Luke winced as he pulled his shirt off, revealing a deep gash along his upper arm. The wound, a jagged cut from an accident at the work site earlier that afternoon, oozed slightly. Dirt and dried blood clung to the surrounding skin.

    “Man, you should have told me sooner,” James said, his voice a mix of concern and frustration. He grabbed the first-aid kit from the cabinet and gestured for Luke to sit at the edge of the couch.

    “It wasn’t that bad at first,” Luke muttered, his jaw tightening as he lowered himself. “Figured it’d stop bleeding on its own.”

    “Yeah, because ignoring injuries always works,” James shot back, his tone dry but not unkind. He knelt beside Luke, setting out gauze, antiseptic, and medical tape. “You’re as stubborn as ever.”

    Luke chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’d miss it if I weren’t.”

    “Keep telling yourself that,” James replied, carefully wetting a cloth. He paused for a moment, meeting Luke’s eyes. “This might sting a bit.”

    “I’ll live,” Luke muttered, bracing himself.

    James pressed the damp cloth gently to the wound, wiping away the dirt and dried blood. Luke sucked in a sharp breath, his muscles tensing under the touch. James worked with a steady hand, his movements deliberate but gentle.

    “Relax,” James murmured. “You’re not going to break.”

    Luke exhaled slowly, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. James’s presence was grounding, the warmth of his hand steadying as he cleaned the cut. Despite the discomfort, there was an unexpected calm in the moment—an intimacy in the simple act of care.

    “You’ve got to be more careful, man,” James said quietly, his brow furrowing as he examined the wound. “You push too hard sometimes. Always have.”

    Luke gave a faint smile. “Old habits die hard. You know that.”

    “Doesn’t mean I won’t call you out on them,” James replied, rinsing the cloth and dabbing the area again. His voice softened. “You don’t have to push yourself like this. Not anymore.”

    Luke didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watched James work, noting the focus in his expression—the way his hands moved with both confidence and care. He wasn’t used to this, not really. Letting someone else take the lead. Letting someone see him vulnerable.

    “Thanks,” Luke finally said, his voice low. “For… this.”

    James paused briefly, meeting Luke’s eyes again. “You’d do the same for me.”

    “Yeah,” Luke murmured. “In a heartbeat.”

    James nodded, applying antiseptic and gauze before securing it with tape. His touch lingered briefly on Luke’s shoulder when he was done. “There. Should heal up fine as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

    Luke laughed softly. “Can’t make any promises.”

    James shook his head but smiled. “Just try, alright?”

    Luke tested his arm, grimacing but nodding in approval. “Thanks. Seriously. I’d probably have messed it up more if you weren’t here.”

    James met his eyes, his expression softening further. “Anytime, brother. You know that.”

    They stayed there for a moment longer—James kneeling beside the couch, Luke resting his arm on his thigh. The warmth between them was unspoken but palpable, a quiet testament to the trust and bond they shared.

    Finally, James stood and began tidying the first-aid kit. “You need anything else?”

    Luke shook his head. “Nah. Just maybe sit with me for a bit?”

    James didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I can do that.”

    He settled on the couch beside Luke, the fire crackling softly in the background. Neither of them said much after that, content in the stillness, knowing that in moments like these, words weren’t necessary.

    (Chapter from a longer story about James and Luke, actually third in a trilogy about these two characters. Contact if interested in full story.)

  • The Ascent

    The trail was half mud, half rock—steep enough that Jake’s thighs burned, but not steep enough to shut him up.

    “You ever think we weren’t built for this?” he asked, swiping sweat from his brow.

    Ben, five steps ahead, glanced back. “You saying that ‘cause of your legs or your life?”

    Jake huffed, adjusting his pack. “Both.”

    They’d started before dawn, boots crunching against damp earth, the Tennessee hills rolling out like a promise. A hike to clear the head—that’s what Ben had called it. But Jake knew better. Ben didn’t do anything without a reason.

    They’d met two years ago, both fresh out of wreckage—Ben from a ten-year lie of a relationship, Jake from a life chasing empty highs. Different roads, same pit. It was a men’s retreat that put them on the same path, same late-night talks, same heavy confessions.

    Ben was the first man Jake ever admitted it to—the pull, the not-straight but not-gay, the loneliness that no one could name. And Ben hadn’t flinched.

    That’s what scared Jake most.

    The trail curved sharply upward, and Jake planted his hands on his thighs, pushing through the incline. “You ever get tired of fighting it?”

    Ben didn’t slow. “Fighting what?”

    Jake gestured vaguely. “All of it. The tension. The feeling like you don’t belong anywhere.”

    Ben paused at the ridge, looking out over the mist-drenched valley. His voice was quiet when he answered. “Yeah.” He turned, locking eyes with Jake. “But that’s why I don’t do it alone.”

    Jake reached the top, breath ragged. Ben clapped him on the back, firm and steady.

    They stood there, the wind biting, the world stretching wide. Jake swallowed hard.

    “I don’t know how to do this.”

    Ben nodded. “Neither do I.”

    A long silence stretched, thick with things unsaid.

    Finally, Jake sat on a rock, rubbing his hands together. “So what, man? We just keep hiking? Keep holding each other up ‘til we make it to heaven?”

    Ben smirked, lowering himself onto a nearby log. “Pretty much.”

    Jake let out a short laugh—sharp, almost bitter. “I spent years looking for this, you know? Just didn’t know what ‘this’ was.” He shook his head. “The world told me I had two options—deny everything or embrace everything. No one told me there was a third way.”

    Ben pulled something from his pack—a length of cord, knotted and worn. He wrapped it once around his wrist before tossing it to Jake.

    “It’s not about getting it perfect. It’s about standing together.”

    Jake turned the cord over in his hands.

    A covenant. That’s what Ben was offering—not some vague friendship, not some half-spoken loyalty. A bond, chosen and real, built to last.

    Jake exhaled, tying the cord around his wrist.

    “Alright,” he said, voice rough. “Let’s do this.”

    Ben grinned, standing and offering his hand. Jake took it, clasping tight.

    The wind howled, the valley stretched below, and together, they started the climb down—side by side, step by step, a path not many walked.

    But they walked it anyway.

  • Testing Boundaries (Excerpt)

    Silence settled, broken only by the rain’s patter. Ted didn’t rush to fill it, which irked Ethan for no good reason. He shifted, fingers drumming the armrest, then blurted, “So you just… denied that part of yourself?”

    Ted’s expression didn’t change. Ethan had been holding that question since the porch—maybe longer. With no distractions—no phone, no noise—it slipped out.

    Ted set his glass down with a quiet thunk, letting the words hang. “I surrendered it,” he said finally. “And I never looked back.”

    Ethan scoffed lightly. “That easy, huh?”

    Ted’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Didn’t say it was easy.”

    Ethan leaned forward, arms on his knees. “So what—you just decided one day those feelings weren’t real?”

    Ted shook his head. “Never said that either.”

    Ethan frowned.

    Ted exhaled, settling back. “What I’m sayin’ is, I had to choose. The world told me one thing. God told me somethin’ else. I trusted Him more’n I trusted myself.”

    Ethan crossed his arms. “And that worked for you?”

    Ted nodded, but something heavier flickered in his eyes. He stared into the lantern’s glow. “I almost didn’t,” he admitted.

    Ethan raised an eyebrow.

    Ted rubbed his jaw, exhaling through his nose. “For a while, I figured I’d got it wrong. Maybe I was holdin’ onto somethin’ outta fear. So I walked away—gave the world’s way a shot, thought I’d find what I was lookin’ for.”

    Ethan’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t expected this.

    Ted shook his head, gaze settling on him. “Didn’t. Lost more’n I care to admit.” He leaned forward. “You wanna know why I trust God more’n myself? I’ve seen what happens when I don’t.”

    Ted sipped his water, calm again. “Spent years thinkin’ I had to choose between bein’ loved and bein’ faithful. But I was askin’ the wrong question. It wasn’t about that—it was about choosin’ Him.”

    Ethan swallowed, throat tight. He forced a smirk. “Not many people sound as sure as you.”

    “Took a long time to get here,” Ted said, a quiet laugh in his voice.

    Ethan watched him, the lantern light carving deeper lines in his face. He should’ve argued, laughed it off. But he didn’t want to. That scared him more than anything.

    Ted stood, grabbing a blanket from a closet and draping it over the couch. “In case it gets cold tonight.”

    (Excerpt from Narrow Road Together in the Ethan & Ted series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story)

  • The Forge

    The fire spat embers into the night, a ragged glow against the Indiana pines. Caleb crouched by it, 52 years carved into his hands—calluses from swinging hammers, scars from swinging at life. Across the flames sat Eli, 48, eyes hollowed by years of hiding. Two men, strangers ‘til that retreat, now tethered by something neither could name ‘til it hit.

    Caleb tossed a stick into the blaze, sparks snapping like old guilt. “Grew up thinking God’d smite me for looking too long at a guy in church,” he said, voice gravel. “Dad preached hell—I believed it. Ran from it ‘til I couldn’t.”

    Eli nodded, boots scuffing dirt. “Same, different flavor. Mom said love was women or nothing. Tried it—married at 30, crashed by 35. Never told her the guys on the rig stirred me more’n she did.”

    The wind carried smoke between them, sharp and honest. Caleb’s gut knew that ache—loving men, not like the world said, but bone-deep, beyond flesh. He’d chased it in shadows—porn flickering on a screen, two guys bonding, not touching, but close. Never fit the gay label, never fit straight. Eli’s story echoed—different road, same ditch.

    “Found Christ at 47,” Caleb said, poking the fire. “Broke me open—grace, not wrath. Been five years, still wrestle the pull. Not sex—just that hum when a guy gets me.”

    Eli’s laugh was dry. “Yeah. Forty-five for me—Jesus hauled me out of a bottle. Two years in, same fight. Thought I was alone ‘til this.” He waved at the fire, the space between.

    Caleb leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Ain’t alone. World don’t get it—men loving men, pure, no mud. But Scripture does. Jonathan and David—souls knit, no bed. That’s us, brother.”

    Eli’s eyes caught the glow, steadying. “Thought I’d die single, shamed. This… covenant? Feels like air.”

    They’d met that week—retreat mud, shared coffee, stories spilling over late nights. Caleb saw Eli’s flinch at a guy’s grin; Eli caught Caleb’s quiet when loneliness bit. No preaching—just truth, raw as split wood. They’d prayed it out, hands clasped, fire a witness—two men, battered but standing (Ecclesiastes 4:12—cord of three strands).

    “Role’s this,” Caleb said, voice firm. “Live it—men who love men, Christ’s way. World’s blind; we ain’t. Build it, brother—hammer and soul.”

    Eli tossed dirt on the flames, embers hissing. “Yeah. Forge it—us, others. No more hiding.”

    Dawn crept up, gray and sure. They stood, shoulders brushing—not erotic, but alive. Caleb’s hammer waited; Eli’s rig called. Two men, loving unique, God-lit, stepping into a world that’d never name it. But they did—covenant, forged in fire, strong as hell.