The bedroom was freezing. Without the central heat rising through the vents, the upstairs air was crisp enough to see their breath in the beam of the battery-powered lantern Wes set on the dresser.
The sound of the storm changed up here. It was no longer the crack of trees; it was the relentlessping-ping-pingof ice pelting the roof, inches above their heads. It was a deafening, isolating sound.
“Clothes,” Wes commanded, his voice trembling. “Off. Now. Wet wool is rushing the freeze.”
He turned to Jake. Jake was fumbling with the buttons of his peacoat, his fingers stiff and useless claws. He whimpered in frustration.
“Stop,” Wes said. “Let me.”
He carefully pushed Jake’s hands away, working the frozen buttons, stripping the heavy coat. It hit the floor with a thud. Next, the suit jacket. Then the tie. He worked with frantic efficiency, kneeling, untying Jake’s shoes, peeling off the wet socks. Jake’s feet were blocks of ice, white and waxy.
“Hurts,” Jake whispered.
“I know. It’s the blood coming back.”
Wes stood, unbuttoning Jake’s shirt, then his pants. He left him in his boxer briefs. Jake stood there, hugging himself, shivering violently again—a good sign, the body fighting back.
“Drink some.” Wes held the whiskey bottle while Jake tilted his head back for a small sip. “That’s good.”
Wes put the bottle on his nightstand and pulled back the mountain of blankets—his down comforter, the heavy Amish quilt from the linen closet, and a wool throw.
“Now, get in.”
Jake dove in, curling into a tight ball in the center of the mattress.
Wes stripped off his own flannel, boots, and jeans, tossing them into the corner. He slid into the bed beside Jake.
The sensory shock was intense. The air in the room was biting, nipping at Wes’s shoulders, but under the heavy weight of the blankets, a pocket of warmth was already forming.
“C-c-cold,” Jake stuttered, his teeth chattering.
“I know. Come here.”
Wes pulled Jake against him. He wrapped his arms around Jake’s torso and tangled their legs together. He made himself big, a blanket of human warmth. He rubbed his hands up and down Jake’s back, creating friction, forcing heat into the skin.
“You came back,” Wes whispered into Jake’s hair, which was damp and smelled of sleet and shampoo. “You walked through a storm for me.”
“Couldn’t... stay away,” Jake managed. His breath hitched. “Meeting ran late. Didn’t want you to think–”
“It’s OK. I know,” Wes said softly into the dark of the cocoon, then whispered, “I told him.”
Jake stiffened against him. “Henry?”
“I told him I loved you. I told him I was risking the truck to get you because I was in love with you.”
Jake pulled back just enough to see Wes’s face in the dim light filtering through the heavy weave of the blankets. His lips were regaining their color. “And?”
“And he told me to bring you home.” Wes brushed a thumb over Jake’s cheekbone. “You’re home, Jake.”
The reality of it hit Jake. The adrenaline of the crash, the terror of the walk, the pain of the cold—it all drained away, leaving behind a raw, aching need.
He stopped shivering. He pushed closer, pressing his body against Wes’s, skin to skin, heat to heat.
“Make me warm, Wes,” Jake said. “Please.”
The request wasn’t just about temperature.
Wes kissed him. It started slow—a soft pressing of lips, sharing warm breath. Jake tasted of whiskey and winter. Wes deepened it, his tongue sweeping into Jake’s mouth, claiming him.
