He looks up at me. The sun catches the flecks in his eyes, turns them almost gold. He’s not afraid, not even of the height.
“Did you ever love him?” He asks. “As more than a friend? A brother?”
“No.”
On the hike back, he lets the silence grow.
*
After ten days, something shifts.
The threat is still out there, a ghost with a gun, but nothing comes for us. The world goes soft around the edges. My shoulders stop knotting every time the wind rattles a shutter. I sleep longer. I eat more. I start to believe, just a little, that maybe this time we’ve found a loophole in the system.
I catch Landon watching me, sometimes. Not with the hunger from before, or the challenge of teaching him the rules. This is a different thing. He’s trying to see if I’ll ever relax, if I’ll settle into the peace like a man who deserves it.
He doesn’t know what to make of me, and I don’t blame him.
One night, he corners me in the kitchen. He’s in his usual attire—sweater, jeans, bare feet. There’s flour on his hands and a streak of it on his jaw. I have no idea what he’s making, but the whole house smells like sugar.
He pours us both a drink, whiskey for me, wine for him. He sets the glass down in front of me, then leans against the counter.
“You gonna relax yet?”
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ just before downing another sip.
He laughs, and the sound makes me smile.
He slides the bottle closer, closes the gap between us. His hand brushes mine.
“You know what I think?” he says.
I shake my head.
“I think you’re dying to relax. You just don’t know how.”
I look at his hand, his fingers drumming the rim of the glass. “And you think you can teach me?”
He tilts his head, smile crooked. “I could try.”
I don’t tell him that I want him to. I just let him close the distance, let him touch my face, let him pull me down for a slow, careful kiss.
It’s not desperate, not rough. It’s… gentle. Like he’s testing to see if I’ll bite.
I don’t.
By week three, I’ve entered an uneasy truce with the fact that no one has come for us yet. He spends his mornings on the terrace, sketching or journaling or just staring out at the white. I take my coffee in the living room, feet up on the ottoman, ‘The Art of War’ in hand but eyes always on the windows.
Sometimes, we sit together, backs to the fire, laying on the floor legs tangled on the couch. He reads aloud, voice smooth and low, and I close my eyes and let the sound settle in my chest.
Once, he falls asleep with his head in my lap, breath warm against my thigh. I stay perfectly still, not daring to move. I don’t want to wake him. I don’t want the moment to end.
*
The third Sunday, the sun is out and the air is clear, so I drag Landon out for another hike. He complains the whole time, says I’m a sadist for making him climb in fresh powder, but he keeps pace and never asks to turn back.
At the crest of the trail, we stop. The valley below is so perfect it hurts to look at. Everything is peaceful.
Landon leans against me, resting his head on my shoulder. “Tell me what you see,” he says.
