Domestic, Jasper thought.
When he opened his eyes, Bennett was standing by the window, phone in hand, gaze fixed on the pale sprawl of snow outside.
“You’re awake,” Bennett said without turning.
“Unfortunately,” Jasper replied. “I was hoping to haunt you quietly.”
Bennett snorted before he could stop himself. He recovered quickly. “Coffee.”
“Thank God,” Jasper said, sitting up. “I was worried you might be the kind of man who starts the day with emails.”
“I am the kind of man who starts the day with emails.”
Jasper accepted the mug anyway. “Tragic.”
They sat at the small table by the window, knees almost touching. Outside, the storm had softened. Snow still covered everything, but the wind had eased, leaving the world looking paused instead of hostile.
Jasper sipped his coffee and watched Bennett over the rim of the mug.
“You slept like a corpse,” Jasper said.
Bennett frowned. “I did not.”
“You did,” Jasper replied. “Flat on your back. Hands folded. Very Victorian.”
Bennett paused. “Why were you watching me sleep?”
“I woke up first,” Jasper said. “I needed something to do.”
“You could have checked your email.”
“I did. No disasters. Then I watched you sleep.”
Bennett shook his head. “You are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Jasper said lightly, “you haven’t told me to stop talking.”
“That’s because I’m conserving energy.”
“For what?”
“For enduring you.”
Jasper smiled. “You are doing great so far.”
They drank in companionable quiet for a minute. Jasper let it stretch, let Bennett settle into the moment instead of trying to manage it.
Bennett broke the silence first. “If the roads open today, we can leave by evening.”
“You sound disappointed,” Jasper said.
“I sound practical.”
Jasper observed, “You almost sound disappointed.”
Bennett shot him a look. “Do you always assign emotions to other people?”
“No,” Jasper said. “Only when they’re obvious.”
