#chosennotshown

Coach didn’t explain where they were going. He didn’t need to. But Wells really wondered what he had instore when they boarded the flight to Toronto and headed to pick up a rental, as Wells had not planned to be home for Valentine's Day as he figured he and Coach would have been staying in the Golden City for the week-end.

Wells watched Toronto fall away through the passenger-side window, glass and steel thinning into highway as Coach drove north on the 400 and then Highway 11 towards Muskoka, then into darker stretches of road lit only by the car’s headlights. The farther they drove, the quieter everything became. Even Wells, usually quick to fill space, let the silence stretch.

Coach drove with both hands on the wheel. Steady. Unhurried. Like this part of the afternoon had already been decided.

“You’re being mysterious,” Wells said eventually, not quite teasing.

Coach didn’t look over. “I’m driving.”

“That’s not a denial.”

A pause. Then, “You don’t sound uncomfortable.”

Wells considered that. The hum of the tires. The way Coach didn’t seem tense, just focused. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

They turned off the main road onto something narrower. Snow lined the edges, reflecting the headlights in soft bands. Trees pressed closer. Wells leaned forward slightly as the cabin came into view—solid wood, low roofline, a single porch light glowing warm against the dark.

Smoke rose from the chimney.

The fire was already going.

Wells exhaled slowly, something in his chest loosening. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding onto the week until that moment.

Coach parked and killed the engine. “You good.”

It wasn’t a question, but Wells answered anyway. “Yeah.”

Inside, the cabin was warm in a way that felt immediate and earned. Firelight flickered across stone and wood. Lamps cast low, deliberate light. Nothing flashy. Nothing unnecessary. Just enough space for two people and no one else.

Coach hung their coats with quiet efficiency. “Bedroom’s down the hall,” he said. “Change if you want. Get comfortable.”

It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t quite a suggestion. Just permission.

Wells nodded and disappeared down the hall, pulse already picking up. He changed into a fitted tee and tights, bare feet silent on the wood floor when he stepped back out.

He slowed when he saw Coach.

Coach had changed too, tank, fitted tights, barefoot against the floorboards. No jacket. No structured layers. Nothing between them now but firelight and intention.

They both paused.

Not long. Just enough.

Wells’s mouth curved, slow and appreciative. “You know,” he said lightly, “if this is your idea of ‘comfortable,’ I’m starting to understand why you don’t invite people out here.”

Coach glanced at him once, deliberate. “I don’t invite people.”

That landed. Wells hummed. “Lucky me.”

Coach stepped toward the fire, motioning Wells closer with a tilt of his head. They settled near the hearth, heat wrapping around them, close enough that awareness replaced distance. Outside, snow tapped softly at the windows like the world trying and failing to intrude.

“So,” Wells said after a moment, stretching his legs out, relaxed and open. “This is what you were hiding.”

“I wasn’t hiding it.”

“You were absolutely hiding it.”

Coach’s mouth twitched. “You stayed.”

Wells turned his head, met his eyes. “I always do.”

The fire popped softly.

“No one knows we’re here,” Wells said.

“No.”

“You wanted it quiet.”

Coach shifted closer not touching yet, but unmistakably claiming space. “I wanted it undisturbed.”

Wells swallowed, then smiled, a little more daring now. “You realize bringing me somewhere this private sets expectations.”

Coach’s gaze dropped briefly bare feet, relaxed posture, the absence of walls between them, before returning to Wells’ face, firm and steady.

“Good,” he said. “Then you understand them.”

That did something to Wells. His breath changed. His tone softened. “This is how you do Valentine’s.”

Coach turned fully toward him now. “Is it a problem.”

Wells shook his head. “No.” A beat. “It’s you.”

Coach studied him, like he was confirming something he’d already decided. Then his hand came up, settling at the back of Wells’ neck, steady, grounding, familiar.

“Still,” Coach murmured.

Wells laughed quietly. “You bring me out to a cabin, get me comfortable, and you’re surprised I’m paying attention?”

Coach leaned in just enough that Wells felt the shift in air. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “I’m in control.”

Wells’s grin flashed, low and warm. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Coach’s thumb pressed once at the base of his neck, firmer now. “Behave.”

Wells leaned closer, eyes bright. “Make me.”

That was the last line either of them needed.

Coach closed the distance, setting the pace, slow, deliberate, undeniable. The kiss wasn’t rushed or performative. It was controlled, intentional, and unmistakably chosen. Wells melted into it, hands settling at Coach’s waist, heat building without urgency.

When they parted, Wells rested his forehead briefly against Coach’s shoulder, smiling to himself.

“You know,” he murmured, “this was absolutely worth the secrecy.”

“It wasn’t secrecy,” Coach said, his hand sliding from Wells’s neck to his jaw. “It was timing.”

Wells glanced down the hall, then back, eyes dark with intent. “So what’s next, Coach.”

Coach held his gaze, unblinking. “You don’t need instructions for that.”

Wells’s breath hitched just slightly. He nodded. “Thought so.”

Coach stood, offering his hand—not pulling, just waiting.

Wells took it immediately.

And when Coach guided him down the hall, away from the fire and deeper into the warmth he’d planned with such precision, Wells followed easily, barefoot steps quiet against the floor.

The bedroom door closed softly behind them.

The fire continued to burn. Snow gathered outside.

Everything else was left exactly where it belonged.

Private. By design.