The Summer After

Excerpts:

“Sorry,” he said. Belatedly it struck me he was apologizing for using my razor.

“Not a problem,” I said. “Not at all. You look… You did a good job.” A bit of scruff remained, but on him it worked well. “You clean up great.”

That thought did get voiced aloud.

“Wish we could get rid of your clothes, too, but—”

And that one.

“Get new ones for you, I mean. I don’t…think my jeans would fit right.”

“Thanks,” he said. His vocabulary might not extend far past the common courtesies, but it helped that he always seemed to mean them.

***

I knew he wasn’t sleeping well, and I resumed my habit of staying in bed with a book long into the mornings, giving him more quiet time in case he could catch up on his rest.

One day I slipped down and saw that it had worked. He was curled under my aunt’s old pinwheel-patterned quilt, eyelids fluttering but the rest of him settled and peaceful. The living room windows faced east; a blush of sunrise touched his cheek in just the way I wanted to.

His unevenly cut hair was spiked and fluffed from contact with the pillow. I pictured stroking hands making patterns through the spikes, pressing them down and ruffling others up.

Since coming here, he’d shaved only sporadically. His lips were framed by hair too thick to be stubble and not yet a beard, enough of it to soften his jawline. The texture looked interesting. I told myself it was just sensual interest, the way I picked lamb’s-ear to rub the velvety leaves between my fingers. But the feeling was more personal than that, and it had lasted much longer.

I’d half-hoped I might get over it, that we’d stop having this tension between us. It wasn’t an uncomfortable tension—warm and unspoken and intimate. Just unexpected. Complicating things, however nice it felt. And it didn’t come because I chafed against celibacy. I still enjoyed my independence and my space. I’d hardly describe myself as dying of horniness, or even of pure, simple skin-hunger.

God knew I had enjoyed sex when I was having it. But once I’d moved to this solitary house, why angst about the lack? I’d had my long-distance friends, my writing, my home to keep in shape. I had myself. I had a vibrator while the batteries still worked, and failing that, I had my hands and everything I’d learned about how to touch my lips, my neck, my breasts, my thighs and clit. Growing up, I’d been taught that sex was sinful. Then I’d discarded my chastity, and then, unchaste, I’d gone celibate, and together those experiences taught me better. That I didn’t have to feel dirty for feeling good. That my body was my own and I could do whatever I liked with it.

So much for me. Now there was a second person involved and I was less sure how to navigate that. Maybe it would be better, safer, even more satisfying if I kept living with an unrequited crush. I kept thinking of the moments when our hands brushed—passing over books, or setting plates at the table, or offering water. Of how his fingers had cradled my face when he returned my glasses to me. Of how much I’d like to mirror that gesture, if I was only sure it wouldn’t spook him. How sometimes, if I looked in his direction for too long, I’d realize all over again how lovely he was and spook myself.

About the ebook:

Two vulnerable people seek refuge with each other in this erotic story with a slow, sensual and emotional build.

She’s been alone since her family disowned her, so the end of the world doesn’t change much at first. As isolated as ever, she stays safe. Then he shows up at her remote farmhouse.

There’s a lot he won’t tell her. His scars show he’s survived something horrible out there in the apocalypse. Even his name seems to be a painful secret. But he’s gentle. She accepts his help and he accepts her hospitality.

As trust grows between them, so does desire. Intimacy risks unsettling the cozy balance they’ve built—and revealing more wounds. Can they find healing as survivors in a new world?

This 20,000-word story is for mature audiences only, featuring healing sex between a sweet wounded hero and compassionate bisexual heroine who is learning to be more than self-reliant.

“The Summer After” was originally published in the Seattle Erotic Art Festival’s 2018 Literary Erotic Art anthology. It’s now available for the first time in ebook, revised and slightly expanded but telling the same slow burn post-apocalyptic hurt/comfort story.

Read The Summer After:

Preorder on Amazon (and read in KU starting March 12, 2026)