Coldseepsinthroughthe triple-paned glass, the kind that’s engineered to keep out winter and every reminder of it, but here, at the edge of the world, the cold wins every time.
The chill wakes me, but it’s not harsh. It reminds me that we’re safe.
I don’t move at first. Landon is curled in the blankets, his leg kicked over mine, head burrowed into the pillow like he’s warding off the coming day. His mouth is half-open, breathing slow and even, a line of drool barely trailing from the edge. It’s so ordinary it almost breaks something in me.
For a minute, I just look at him. The way his lashes stick together, the dark sweep of his hair against the white, the bruise fading at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. In the city, I watched the world for threats; here, I watch him breathe. I count the seconds between rise and fall, until I’m sure I haven’t imagined the peace of it.
I could kill this moment, easy. Drown it in my usual safety checklist. It’s a habit hardwired into me by a childhood that was mostly brutality and trauma.
But I don’t.
Not this morning.
Instead, I go soft. My eyes take him in, the way a starving man eye fucks a meal he thinks he doesn’t deserve.
The sun hasn’t even started to consider its rise. The mountains outside the window are shadows on shadows, the snow below them bright and undisturbed. I remember the instructions Brooks left: lock the doors after midnight, keep the comms dark, don’t answer unless it’s him. The sort of instructions you give a friend you think might not survive the night.
I reach for my phone, but the motion wakes Landon. He twitches, then blinks at me, his face smoothing into something softer than sleep. He looks at my hand on the blanket, then at my eyes, like he’s searching for proof that I’m here and not another bad memory.
“Morning,” he rasps.
“Morning,” I answer, the rumble in my chest making a blush rise over his cheeks.
Despite his reaction, the word feels foreign, like I’m impersonating someone who knows what mornings are supposed to be.
He sits up, the blanket dropping from his shoulder. Compulsively, I take in his body. The slope of his shoulders, the way his nipples harden against the cold. His cock tenting the sheet. He notices my gaze, smirks, then gets out of bed with a stretch.
Wiggling his hips, he pretends to stretch, keeping his eyes on mine.He’s enjoying teasing me.
“Is there coffee?” he asks.
I nod toward the kitchen, then follow him, fighting the urge to bend him over and fuck him raw.
I dig the French press from the pantry, measure the grounds perfectly. Landon watches, then pulls eggs and bread from the fridge, starts assembling breakfast like it’s something he’s done his whole life. I watch him, but he pretends not to notice. It’s a strange kind of choreography—two people with no script, making one up as they go.
He cracks the eggs, one-handed. “You cook?” he asks, not looking up.
“I eat,” I say. “My cooking skills are limited at best.”
He snorts, but the smile lingers. “Figured you’d be a protein shake guy. Or raw meat.”
I shrug. “Not opposed.”
He scrambles the eggs with a fork, puts a pan on the induction burner and starts toasting the bread. The sound is soft,almost nothing, but I hear every note: the scratch of metal on ceramic, the shift of his bare feet, the soft clatter as he rummages for a spatula. I could listen to it forever.
I pour the coffee, black for me, loaded with sugar for him. He looks at it, then wrinkles his nose.
“They really did a number on you, huh? You like the taste of suffering.”
“I like the taste of awake.”
He slides the eggs onto two plates, grabs the toast, and brings it to the table. We sit, facing the window, the world outside so white it’s almost hostile.
For a while, we eat in silence. I watch him steal glances at me, then look away, then try again. I wonder what he sees. A monster? A rescuer? Something worse, or something better?
He’s the first to break. “So, what’s there to do here?”
“Dunno.”
