He grins, full and bright, and for a second I hate how much I want to see it every morning.
“You ever just… have a normal day?” he asks, tilting his head. “Not running, not fighting. Just… coffee and breakfast and maybe a walk?”
“Normal isn’t a thing I ever learned.”
He nods, accepting it. “You want to try?”
The question is small, but it hits like a truck.
I swallow a mouthful of coffee, then nod. “Yeah. I could try.”
He stands, clears the plates, rinses them in the steel sink. I watch him, the lean muscles in his back, the way his hands work. I remember last night—how he moved under me, how he kept my openness safe, how he gave back as much as I took.
I feel something hot in my chest. Not lust. Not hunger.
Hope.
I hate it, but I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
When he turns, I reach for his wrist, pull him toward me.
He turns towards me.
I touch his face, trace the bruise on his jaw, then the line of his throat. I want to say something, but my tongue trips on the words. Instead, I lean in and kiss him, soft.
He melts into it, like he’s been waiting for permission.
We stay like that for a long minute, the world outside turning from blue to white, the mountains watching, the fire crackling behind us.
When we break, he’s smiling. “See? Not that hard.”
“For you, maybe.”
He laughs, and this time it sounds read, then leans in, whispers, “I’ll teach you,” and I believe him.
After breakfast, after the newness of not being hunted, the world feels both too big and too empty. I’m not built for boredom. There’s always been a mission—overt or hidden, but always there, guiding every movement. Now, with Landon in the room and the world supposedly on pause, I feel the old itch for action gnawing at my nerves.
We get dressed in warm clothes and I decide we’re going to go on a hike. I’m standing at the mudroom, prepping gear like a ghost on autopilot when I hear him behind me. Landon joins me, wearing a thick black sweater and jeans. He zips a navy parka up to his chin and laces on the kind of snow boots Brooks leaves for guests who might show up unexpectedly. He looks at me, then at the bag I’m packing.
“Tell me we’re not running again,” he says.
I shake my head. “Not running. Field trip.”
He gives me a once-over. “You’re packing like we’re going to invade France.”
I pass him a pair of gloves. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done before noon.”
He laughs, pulls on the gloves, and falls into step behind me. We exit through the back, straight into the white. The air outside is violent, the kind of cold that doesn’t just cut but carves—cheeks, fingers, lungs. It’s so bright you’d swear the sun was showing off.
Should have grabbed sunglasses.
The snow is knee-deep in places, drifted high against the house and on every flat surface. The trees around the chalet are stripped bare, black lines against the sky. Everything smells like fresh ice, with an undertone of wood smoke from the fireplace. Our footsteps are the only sound, the snow swallowing everything else. Even our breath disappears into the blue air, instantly ghosting.
We head south, toward the tree line. The chalet is perched so high up the mountain you could spit and hit the next country over, but Brooks designed the property with a dozen escape routes in mind. I choose the one least likely to be under surveillance and lead us along a ridgeline.
After ten minutes, Landon says, “This is incredible.” He stops and turns in a slow circle, head tipped back. “Never saw a sky like this in the city.”
He’s beautiful like this, the way the wind bites his nose red, the way he stands loose, not hunched against attack.
