It was a fullness that stole his breath. Wes gripped Jake’s forearms, his head thrown back into the pillow, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Jake moved with a tenderness that stripped away every defense Wes had left. He rocked into him, whispering, “I've got you, Wes. You can let go.”
And Wes did. He let go of the farm. He let go of the fear for his father’s health. He let go of the grief for his mother. He simply existed in the heat and the motion of the man above him.
When the second release came, it was gentle and complete. Wes trembled in Jake’s arms, safe and sound.
Minutes later—or maybe hours—they lay tangled together in the absolute dark. The lantern battery had died, leaving them in blackness. The room was freezing, cold enough to kill, but inside their cocoon of quilts, it was tropical.
Wes pulled the duvet up over their heads, sealing them in.
“Make room,” Wes mumbled, sleep tugging at him like a tide. He wrapped his arm around Jake’s waist, pulling him back against his chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jake promised, interlacing their fingers.
“I know,” Wes said.
Outside, the ice storm raged on, snapping trees and burying the world in silence, but inside the farmhouse, the thaw was complete.
Twelve
Holiday Pines Farm
Tuesday, December 23
8:00 AM
Wes woke up to a light so bright it felt like a physical presence in the room.
He blinked, shielding his eyes against the glare. The storm had passed, leaving behind a sky of piercing, cloudless blue. The sun was blazing, hitting the ice coating the county and fracturing into a blinding kaleidoscope of diamonds.
The world outside was frozen and broken, but the world inside the bed was warm and whole.
“Too bright,” Jake mumbled, burying his face in Wes’s chest. He was draped over Wes like a climbing vine, one leg thrown over Wes’s hip, an arm flung across his stomach.
Wes combed his fingers through Jake’s hair, which was sticking up in every direction. “Storm’s over.”
“Is it?” Jake cracked one blue eye open. “Does that mean we have to get up?”
“Unfortunately. We have trees to check.”
Jake groaned, tightening his grip. “Five more minutes. I need to defrost my soul.”
They stayed like that for ten minutes, basking in the quiet. The terrified urgency of yesterday—the storm, the wreck, the walk—felt like a nightmare they had both woken up from.
When they finally dragged themselves out of the tangled sheets, the air in the room was still nippy, but bearable. Wes pulled on a fresh flannel and his heavy work boots.
Downstairs, the living room smelled like woodsmoke and strawberry jam.
Henry was sitting in his recliner, his cane resting against his knee. He was eating a Pop-Tart—untoasted, because the power was still out—with a content expression.
“Morning, boys,” Henry grunted. He gestured to the window with his half-eaten pastry. “The silence is loud, isn’t it?”
It was. The snapping sound was gone. Now, there was just the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water falling from the eaves as the Georgia sun began its work.
“How’s the leg, Pop?” Wes asked.
“Stiff. The cold gets deep in the joints.” Henry looked at Jake. “How are your feet, son?”
