By the time I make it downstairs, the fire’s burned low. The cabin’s drenched in that soft, flickering glow—all gold and shadow. And there he is, curled up on the couch under one of the throw blankets, sound asleep.
He’s on his side, one arm tucked under his cheek, mouth slightly open. His hair is starting to wave a little, his face flushed from the heat of the room. He looks peaceful.
God, he’s beautiful.Not in the obvious, perfect way. It’s in the way he breathes, the way his lashes twitch when he dreams, and the faint scar along his jaw that only shows up under firelight. Every part of him makes me ache.
I crouch next to him and brush a strand of hair back from his forehead. He doesn’t stir. Just lets out a little sigh that sounds way too much like trust.
That’s what kills me.
Because I’d burn down the entire world before I ever let anyone ever hurt him.
He’s been through enough. I know what it looks like when someone flinches at shadows they shouldn’t have to remember. I know the way he pretends he’s fine just to keep me from worrying.
But I see through it.
I’d do anything for him.
Anything.
Shit.
Love.
I love him.
Fuck it. It’s true. Since we were teenagers, I never looked at him like he was just my stepbrother. Then that night I kissed him when he was getting ready to leave for college. It changed everything.
The way he laughs, the way he says my name like it means something.
Love.
I slide my arms under him and lift, careful not to wake him. He murmurs something in his sleep, my name, maybe, and burrows into my chest. My heart trips over itself.
Sleep, mi amor, I’ve got you.
Upstairs, I lay him down on the clean sheets and pull the blanket up over his shoulders. Crawling in next to him, he curls toward me even half-asleep, instinctive, like he knows I’m his safe space. Because I am.
“Te amo, pretty boy,” I whisper against his hair, so quiet that he won’t remember it in the morning.
The light wakes me first,pale and filtered through the snow-dusted windows. For a minute, I just lie there, listening to the slow, steady sound of his breathing beside me. Caleb’s still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, hair a mess, the blanket pulled up to his chin.
He looks younger like this. Softer. The worry lines between his brows are gone, his mouth relaxed. There’s a faint smudge of bruises along his throat where my mouth had been last night. I trace it lightly with my fingertip, just enough to make my chest twist with something that feels too big to name.
I could stay here all morning.
But the cabin’s cold, and if I don’t get the fire going, he’ll wake up shivering. So I slide out of bed carefully, tucking the blanket tighter around him, and pad downstairs. The living room’s dim except for the faint gray light pushing through the big window. Inside the hearth there’s nothing but ash. I crouch, stack the logs, and strike a match. The fire catches quickly, crackling to life, filling the space with that familiar dry-wood scent.
It feels…good.Domestic, almost.
I could see us coming up here every year, maybe not at Christmas time, but during winter for sure.
Just to be together for a little while.
Looking over at the tree that’s already been set up, something about it makes me think of home, of mornings in our kitchen with my mom humming and the smell of cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven. She used to make them every Christmas Eve for Caleb and me when we were kids. Said it was her way of sweetening the day before Santa came.
Guess I picked up the tradition without meaning to.
Last night when he said he was going to miss her cinnamon rolls, I almost told him that he wouldn’t, but I figured the surprise of waking up to them would be better. Heading into the small kitchen, I pull the tray of dough from the fridge, the rolls already cut and proofed from before the trip. I line them up in the baking dish, brush them with butter, and sprinkle extra cinnamon and brown sugar just because Caleb’s got the world’s worst sweet tooth.
