“Not shivering,” Jack said.
“And those jeans, my God,” Morgan said. “Mabel was so pissed about those.”
Jack shrugged. He couldn’t imagine Mabel getting pissed about anything.
Morgan looked like he wanted to suggest that Jack burn the jeans, but even as his mouth tightened, there was something soft in his eyes.
“I get it,” he said. “You’re independent and self-sufficient. But you’re making me cold just looking at you.” He paused, then repeated, “Please?”
“Fine.”
Jack went into Morgan’s room and dug through the suitcases, which were messier than they had been the last time. Then he went into the bathroom for a quick, hot shower and changed into oversized sweats, dry socks, and a thick, brand-new T-shirt.
He looked in the mirror as he dried his hair with a rumpled towel and didn’t understand what his eyes were telling him. Something about wanting what he couldn’t have.
For the first time in a long time, he wanted to stay right where he was. With Morgan. He wanted to see whether what they’d shared—fun, food, coffee, laughter—could become something more.
But now Morgan was pissed about Jack going out into the cold and because he’d gotten yelled at by Mabel and the fact that Young Tommy had brought Jack back to the feed and grainagain.
There were so many black marks against him that it was a giant scribble in his mind. Life had been easier on the trains. Rough, sure, but simpler. Straightforward.
“Jack?”
Turning away from the mirror and unproductive thoughts, Jack thumped down the passage to the warm, bright kitchen.
There, Morgan, his robe slung over a chair, his cane hooked on a door handle, was shoving what looked like two pot pies into the oven. He’d changed into dry clothes while Jack showered. His arms were bare in his T-shirt, and while focused on his task, he wasn’t frowning or looking like he was coming up with something critical to say. He was just a man, a handsome man, making dinner.
“These’ll take an hour,” he said, straightening up. “We can snack on apples and cheese or something in the meantime. And after dinner, you can build a fire. I would, but it’s a lot easier for you.”
“Maybe, instead of apples and cheese, we can eat some peach cobbler,” Jack said. He went to the table and unwrapped the tinfoil and the layer of plastic wrap beneath and touched the edge of the giant pastry. It was cold but not frozen, which meant that each bite would be dense and delicious. “Like, right now.”
“Dessert before dinner?” Morgan asked, his distracted air turning fierce. “Before we’ve properly eaten?”
“Yes, with coffee,” Jack said brightly. “I’m hungry. You’re hungry. No one’s going to know. And who cares if they do? Mabel wouldn’t fault you for being unable to wait for her baked goods.”
For a wild second, it seemed as though Morgan was going to give in right then and there. Then his expression shifted. Chewing the inside of his lip, he looked at Jack, dark brows lowered in a scowl. He was about to say no. For no reason other than to be stern and self-denying.
“Please,” Jack said.
Morgan blinked, his features softening again as if a thousand reasons to say no were racing to the fore—and maybe there was only one reason to say yes, just the one, but it was the strongest. What that reason was, exactly, Jack couldn’t be sure, but he could tell the precise second Morgan decided.
“Good,” Jack said. “I’ll start the coffee, and you slice us two pieces. Giant ones. Make mine a corner, all gooey with peach syrup.”
Perhaps, as he turned to the coffee machine on the counter, he heard Morgan chuckle to himself, and perhaps the feeling in the room eased into a comfortable silence while each of them went about his task.
Jack made the coffee dark and strong, the way he liked it, and when he turned, there were two small plates on the table, each overflowing with a hunk of peach cobbler. Then, to his surprise, Morgan shook his head.
“That won’t do,” he said, taking the plates to the counter. Before Jack could ask what was going on, Morgan eased the slices into bowls, then reached into the freezer for the half-gallon tub of ice cream. “Might as well go whole hog.” He dug in the drawer for the ice cream scooper and held it aloft like a torch.
“Might as well,” Jack said, agreeing completely with this sensible plan. He watched Morgan not be stingy, giving them each several scoops of the ice cream.
The kitchen felt cozy as they sat kitty-corner from each other and ate their dessert first. The peach cobbler was as delicious as Jack had imagined it would be, and the dark coffee warmed him up from the inside.
What he hadn’t imagined—or maybe he had—was Morgan’s expression as he ate. As he licked his spoon, then his lips, flicking a glance at Jack as if to draw his attention to the most amazing moment where Morgan seemed at peace.
Maybe Mabel’s peach cobbler was magical. It certainly tasted that way. Sunlight and springtime all beneath a sweet, flaky crust, made even sweeter by the ice cream.
Outside the window, it was snowing again, the light of the kitchen making the fat flakes sparkle. They drifted slowly, as if they were making silent spinning promises to do no harm. Tonot pile up into an insurmountable mass. To remain gentle, like the softness glowing in Morgan’s eyes.
