The shivering was gone. So was the cold from his bones. Yesterday and tomorrow vanished as well, and all he had was this moment. On the couch, wrapped in Morgan’s arms, with a quilt around them both and barely enough room to lift a glass half-full of Frangelico to his mouth.
He could see Morgan’s chin out of the corner of his eye, feel the warmth of his breath. Feel the slight movement of his chest when he swallowed some of the liquor, the long muscles in his throat tensing and relaxing in that swallow.
They were both gazing at the fire. It was the most perfect fire Jack had ever built, bar none. A triad of orange-and-blue-and-white flames danced in the small window of the cast-iron stove, the middle flame the tallest and the ones on the right and left of it slightly smaller, the way a first grader would draw it.
The air smelled of pine sap and smoke, while the blizzard scrabbled at the windows as if violently opposed to the moment of comfort they were sharing. But they had this. This now. This wish-it-could-last-forever now.
Soon they’d have to get up. Morgan would need his pills, and Jack should make them something to eat. In the meantime, hefelt like a cat who had been gently petted for hours in all the right ways.
Back home—with those girls—he’d done some kissing and groping and feeling, but it hadn’t been like this. Even his imagined dalliances with the Italian boy or the Irish boy had not blossomed into such joy.
That first kiss had been an explosion, fireworks in his soul. He’d leaned in and, so grateful to be alive, kissed Morgan. And Morgan, rather than pushing him away or blustering a protest, had allowed it.
Coming down from that horrible drive, Jack had been tense all the way through. The closeness of Morgan’s body, the concern in his voice as he asked if Jack was okay—apologized, as if there were anything to apologize for—replaced Jack’s stress with other things. Better things. Warmth. That moment had just about made the drive worth it. What had followed was gravy.
A sharp sound crackled from the little stove, a bit of wood fell, and Jack’s perfect trio of flames collapsed into six smaller ones, fire imps that jumped this way and that, as if threatening to burst from their cage.
“Could get more wood,” Jack said, shifting, though his body was urging him to burrow deep inside Morgan and never come out.
“What you could do is go get your new clothes and try them on to make sure they fit,” Morgan said, like the practical taskmaster he was. “And later we can find somewhere to recycle those old boots of yours.”
“My boots are fine; don’t insult them.”
Jack lifted his chin to show he meant business, but Morgan was probably right. His boots had been repaired and patched more than once, and his feet had been two blocks of ice by the time they’d arrived back at the feed and grain.
“I’ll start dinner,” Morgan said. “I’m capable of opening a can of stew and getting potatoes ready to boil.” He scoffed out loud as if Jack had raised some kind of objection.
“Do that.” Jack levered himself to a sitting position, shivering at the loss of the warmth of Morgan’s body, then stood up, nodding toward the bottle. “Trade you a fashion show for the last of that stuff.”
With a small laugh, Morgan poured the last of the Frangelico into Jack’s glass and held it out.
Jack took the glass and drained it, cheeks bulging for effect, and then gasped as if the small drink had just about knocked him flat. Then, cheerfully, he tromped downstairs, where he padded around the store to make sure the windows and doors were shut tight before grabbing the large black bags, along with Morgan’s cane.
When he got back upstairs, the couch was empty, the quilt folded back as though nobody had ever been sitting there. Morgan was in the kitchen, standing at the stove, stirring stew in a pan, though it didn’t look as if he’d done anything with the potatoes.
“I’ve got that.” Jack handed Morgan the purple cane. “You look like you’re hurting.”
Morgan took the cane and winced as he shifted his weight. His face was white, and his eyes were hard when he looked at Jack.
Alarm rose inside Jack. “Need your meds?” He turned off the burner. “Is it your knee?”
At Morgan’s slow nod, Jack found the pills in the cupboard, filled a glass with water, and handed the lot to Morgan.
Commonplace actions, but Jack’s head was whirling with questions. Morgan didn’t have the expression of a man who’d just had a good time in bed. He looked like he had when Jack hadfirst popped out from behind that cash register: irritated and in no mood to hide his opinions.
“You should take those,” Jack said.
“I’m fine.”
“Morgan.”
“I said I’mfine.”
The ice from outside seemed to fill the kitchen, taking it as far away from cozy and sweet as it could possibly be. Jack didn’t know what to do to ease his dread as his imagination took over, a wild horse galloping. Morgan didn’t just regret what had happened between them, hefuckingregretted it.
Morgan took his meds, his gaze flicking up to Jack. Clearly he resented Jack hovering, but Jack remained close because, yes, he was counting the pills. One, two. Three. With the bottles once again capped, Morgan stood up, leaning on his cane. “I need a shower,” he said, taking a few deep breaths as though to settle himself.
Morgan’s drastic change in mood was impossible to ignore, but Jack did his best. In the middle of himself, somewhere, remained a kernel of hope that bad things wouldn’t happen simply because Morgan had let his guard down and Jack had welcomed him with open arms.
