Chapter 1: Truth or Dare by Firelight
The lantern hissed softly on the fold-out table, its amber glow pushing back just enough darkness to make the shadows feel deliberate. Outside, the wind combed through the acacia branches, and the canvas walls of the safari tent breathed in and out like something sleeping. Inside, the air was thick with the sweet bite of whiskey and the kind of laughter that only came after the third bottle of wine.
Brandon tipped the bottle over Dylan's glass first, then his own. The red sloshed high against the rim. He didn't bother being neat about it.
"Alright," Dylan said, leaning back into the camp chair with a grin that stretched too wide. "I've got one."
"Of course you do," Savannah said from her cross-legged perch on the bedroll. Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, and she was already looking at Gabby when she said it.
Gabby caught the look. Brandon watched her catch it—the way her lips curved, just slightly, before she glanced down at her wine.
The fire outside crackled and popped, a sound that traveled through the tent like distant applause.
"Gabby and Savannah," Dylan announced, pointing between them with a lazy finger. "Seven minutes in heaven."
Brandon laughed, but it came out shorter than he intended. "That's not even a dare. That's a middle school party game."
"Exactly," Dylan said. "Which makes it perfect. No rules, no consequences, just—" he waved his hand vaguely at the far partition of the tent, the one with the second bedroll and the extra blanket they'd never used. "You know. Seven minutes."
Savannah raised an eyebrow at Gabby. The look between them was longer this time, more deliberate, and Brandon felt something shift in his chest—a tightness, a heat, something he couldn't name.
Gabby turned to him. Her eyes were bright, glassy in that warm, unfocused way that meant she was tipsy but not gone. "Is this okay?"
The question hung there. Brandon could have said no. He knew that. But the truth was, the idea of watching them—or not watching them, of listening—made his pulse jump in a way he hadn't felt in years. Not because he wanted Savannah. Not because he wanted anyone else. But because he wanted to see Gabby want something without guilt. Without apology.
He took a long sip of wine. "Take the lantern."
Savannah was on her feet before he finished the sentence. She grabbed the lantern off the table, her hips swaying slightly as she walked toward the partition. Gabby stood slower. She touched Brandon's shoulder on her way past—just a brush of her fingers—and he felt it all the way down his spine.
The flap of the partition closed behind them. The light from the lantern bled through the canvas, casting their silhouettes in soft, blurred shapes. Brandon couldn't see them clearly. He could only see movement—the dark outline of Savannah's hair, the curve of Gabby's arm, the way their shadows seemed to lean into each other.
Dylan settled back in his chair, wine glass balanced on his knee. "Well," he said. "This should be interesting."
Brandon didn't answer. He was listening.
At first, there was only the rustle of fabric and the low murmur of voices. He couldn't make out words. Then Gabby laughed—that warm, flirty laugh she did when she was nervous—and Savannah said something that made her laugh again, softer this time.
The silence that followed was different. Heavier.
Brandon heard the lantern hiss as someone adjusted it. He heard the soft creak of the bedroll as weight shifted. And then he heard Gabby exhale—a long, slow breath that hitched at the end.
Dylan took a loud sip of wine. "You good, man?"
Brandon nodded, not trusting his voice.
The tent flap rippled in the breeze, and the shadows on the other side of the partition swayed. Two shapes, closer now. Close enough that he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Gabby's laugh came again, but it wasn't a laugh this time. It was something else. A sound caught between surprise and pleasure. A sound he knew.
Then it went quiet.
The kind of quiet that made the air feel thin.
Brandon set his glass down. The wine was warm in his throat, and his heart was beating harder than it should have been. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the canvas partition like he could burn a hole through it with his eyes.
Dylan was watching him now. The grin had faded. "You sure you're good?"
"Yeah," Brandon said. His voice came out rougher than he expected. "I'm good."
But he wasn't sure. Not because he wanted them to stop. Because he didn't want them to stop. Because the soft, breathless hush coming from the other side of the partition was doing something to him—something that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff and liking the view.
He heard Savannah whisper something. He couldn't make out the words, but he heard the tone. It was a question.
And then he heard Gabby answer.
Just one word. Soft. Certain.
"Yes."
The lantern flickered. The shadows on the canvas moved. Brandon's pulse hammered in his ears, and he didn't look away.
The tent held its breath. So did he.
Dylan's chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, wine glass dangling from two fingers. He didn't say anything. Neither did Brandon. The only sounds were the wind worrying the canvas and the low, steady hiss of the lantern on the other side of the partition.
A shadow shifted. Then another. The silhouettes melted together, and Brandon couldn't tell whose hand was where, whose breath was whose. The air in the tent felt thicker, warmer, like someone had turned up a hidden dial.
Dylan exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. "Seven minutes," he whispered, like he was reminding himself.
Brandon didn't answer. He was too busy listening to the small, wet sounds he couldn't name. The rustle of fabric. The soft catch of a breath. The muffled pressure of a mouth against skin.
Then the lantern light flickered, and the shadows stopped moving.
Gabby moans softly.
The sound hung in the air like smoke.
Brandon's fingers tightened around his glass. The wine was gone—he didn't remember drinking it—and the tent felt smaller than it had a minute ago. The canvas walls pressed in. The lantern light on the other side of the partition flickered once, twice, like it was breathing.
Dylan shot him a look. Something between a question and a grin.
Brandon set his glass down. The thunk of it against the table was louder than it should have been.
He stood.
Dylan's eyebrows went up but he didn't say anything. Just watched as Brandon crossed the tent floor, bare feet silent on the woven rug, and stopped at the partition flap.
The canvas was warm under his palm. Through it, he could hear the small sounds again—the wet catch of breath, the shift of bodies on the bedroll, the soft friction of skin against skin.
He should knock. He should say something. He should go back to his chair and finish his wine and pretend he couldn't hear his wife making out with their friend.
Instead, he pulled the flap aside.
The lantern sat on the floor between them, its glow painting everything in shades of honey and shadow. Gabby was on her back, hair fanned out across the pillow, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Savannah was stretched beside her, propped on one elbow, her free hand resting on Gabby's stomach—fingers splayed just below her ribs, just above the waistband of her shorts.
They both looked up when the light changed.
Gabby's eyes went wide. Not scared. Not angry. Something else. Something that made Brandon's throat go dry.
"Hey," he said. His voice cracked on the word like he was fifteen again.
Savannah didn't move her hand. She just tilted her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Hey yourself."
Gabby wet her lips. "Brandon—"
"I know," he said. "Seven minutes. I'm not—" He stopped. Took a breath. "I just wanted to see."
The words landed between them. Honest. Ugly. True.
Savannah looked at Gabby. Gabby looked at Brandon. The lantern hissed.
Then Gabby reached out her hand.
Her fingers curled toward him, an invitation, and Brandon didn't think. He just moved. The flap fell closed behind him, and then he was on his knees on the bedroll, and then he was lying down beside his wife, his shoulder pressed against hers, his breath mixing with hers in the close, warm air.
Savannah's hand was still on Gabby's stomach. Brandon could see it now—the way her thumb moved in small circles, the way Gabby's muscles twitched under the touch.
"Hi," Gabby whispered, turning her head to look at him.
"Hi," he whispered back.
Savannah laughed—low and soft. "You two are cute."
"We know," Gabby said, and then she kissed him.
It was different with Savannah there. Usually, when Gabby kissed him, it was a prelude. A promise. This time it was something else—a sharing, a showing. Her lips were warm and tasted like wine, and when she pulled back, her eyes flicked to Savannah, checking.
Savannah was watching them with open curiosity. Her hand had stilled on Gabby's stomach. "Can I?" she asked, looking at Brandon.
He nodded. He couldn't speak.
Savannah's fingers moved to the hem of Gabby's tank top, slipping beneath the fabric, sliding up over her ribs. Gabby inhaled sharply. Her hand found Brandon's and squeezed.
The lantern flickered. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the canvas walls. Somewhere in the main part of the tent, Dylan's chair creaked.
Brandon turned his head. Through the gap in the partition flap, he could see Dylan sitting there in the dark, wine glass in hand, watching the shadows just like Brandon had been.
Their eyes met.
Dylan raised his glass. A toast. A question.
Brandon didn't answer. He just turned back to his wife, to Savannah's hand on his wife's skin, to the heat building in the small space between them.
Gabby tugged at his shirt. "You're wearing too much," she murmured.
"I know," he said.
And he started unbuttoning.
Savannah's laugh was a low, delighted thing. She sat up, crossing her legs, watching them with the focused attention of someone who'd been waiting for this—not just tonight, but for a while.
"You planned this," Brandon said, not accusing. Just observing.
Savannah's smile was unrepentant. "Not exactly. But I hoped."
Gabby snorted. "You're terrible."
"You love it."
Gabby didn't deny it. She just pulled Brandon's shirt open and pressed her palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. "Your pulse is racing," she said.
"No shit."
She laughed—that warm, flirty laugh from before—and leaned in to kiss his neck. Brandon closed his eyes. Let himself feel it. The warmth of her mouth, the weight of Savannah's gaze, the way the air in the tent had gone thick and sweet and dangerous.
When he opened his eyes again, Savannah had moved closer. She was kneeling beside Gabby now, one hand on Gabby's hip, the other reaching out to touch his face. Her fingers were cool against his cheek.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," he said back.
And then she kissed him.
It was brief—just a brush of lips, a taste of wine and something sweeter underneath—but it sent a jolt through him like a live wire. When she pulled back, Gabby was watching them both, her lips parted, her eyes dark.
"Okay," Gabby breathed. "Okay."
Savannah looked at her. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Brandon didn't know what they were agreeing to. He didn't ask. He just lay there, shirt open, heart pounding, as the two women exchanged a look that said more than words ever could.
Then Savannah turned to the partition flap and pulled it open.
"Hey, Dylan," she called. "Get in here."
Dylan's laugh rolled through the tent. A moment later, his shadow appeared in the gap. He ducked through, wine glass still in hand, and settled onto the bedroll on the other side of Savannah. His eyes swept over the scene—Brandon half-undressed, Gabby flushed and smiling, Savannah in the middle with her hand still on Gabby's hip.
"Well," he said. "This is cozy."
"Shut up," Savannah said, but she was grinning.
Dylan took a sip of wine. "Seven minutes. Not eight."
"Shut up," she said again, and kissed him.
Brandon watched. Gabby watched. The lantern hissed and the wind blew and the tent held them all in its warm, amber glow.
When Savannah pulled back from Dylan, her eyes found Brandon's.
"Your turn," she said.
He didn't ask what she meant. He just reached for her hand, and she gave it, and then he was kissing her again—longer this time, deeper, while Gabby's fingers traced circles on his chest and Dylan's knee pressed against his in the close, crowded dark.
The seven minutes were long gone.
No one was counting anymore.