Jasper slid off the bed and stretched, casual, unbothered. The movement pulled his shirt up slightly at his waist.
Bennett looked away so abruptly that he felt the burn of embarrassment.
Jasper noticed anyway. Bennett could tell. Jasper noticed everything.
“Coffee,” Jasper said. “I am going downstairs. Want me to grab you one?”
Bennett hesitated. “Black.”
Jasper made a face. “That tracks. You are the kind of man who punishes himself in small ways.”
“It is not punishment,” Bennett said. “It is coffee.”
“It is regret in liquid form.”
Bennett looked at him. Jasper was smirking, but there was no real bite in it. Just that calm confidence that made Bennett want to argue even when he didn’t care.
He hated that it worked.
“I will come with you,” Bennett said, because the idea of Jasper wandering off alone and returning with updates and a new level of comfort in the hotel did not sit right.
Jasper’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you worried I will make friends?”
“I am worried you will embarrass us.”
Jasper leaned closer, voice dropping. “You mean embarrass you.”
Bennett held his gaze and refused to flinch. “I mean, embarrass us.”
Jasper’s smile widened like Bennett had said something else entirely.
They walked down together. The lobby had quieted since last night, but the snowstorm had created its own community. People were gathered in pockets, trading information and complaints, making plans they couldn’t fully commit to.
At the coffee station, an older couple was debating whether to try driving despite the warnings. A family with two young kids looked exhausted, the parents trading shifts entertaining restless children. A woman in business attire typed furiously on her laptop, phone wedged between shoulder and ear.
Bennett recognized the energy. Everyone trying to maintain control in an uncontrollable situation.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones struggling,” Jasper observed.
Bennett watched a toddler sprint past, shrieking with delight while his father chased after him. “At least we don’t have to entertain children.”
“You’d be terrible at that,” Jasper said.
“I would,” Bennett agreed without defensiveness.
Jasper looked surprised. “No argument?”
“Why would I argue with the truth?” Bennett replied. “I don’t have the patience for children. I barely have patience for adults.”
Jasper’s mouth curved. “And yet here you are. Tolerating me.”
“Tolerance is a strong word,” Bennett said, but there was no bite in it.
At the coffee station, Jasper hovered near the pastries with exaggerated interest.
Bennett took a cup and filled it with black coffee, no sugar, because it was not an aesthetic choice. It was a decision. It was control.
Jasper watched him do it. “You are consistent.”
