He smiles. “Excellent plan.” We head deeper into the trees this time, away from the path, the snow crunching underfoot. He follows my lead without comment, trusting my sense of direction. The forest closes in around us; it’s quiet, white, and endless.
We talk more than yesterday. Not about anything important. Music, food, and some ridiculous story about a guy in his unit—Mason, the one with the annoying face—who tried to microwave a metal fork. I tell him about a dog Niko once rescued that bit three officers and then slept in his bed like it owned the place.
At some point, he reaches out and laces our fingers together.
Just like that.
No needing to pause or check that we’re alone, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. I look down at our hands for a second. “Problem?” he asks, lifting a brow.
“No.”
“Good.” We stop by a frozen stream, the surface of which is cracked in delicate lines. He crouches to poke at it with a stick like a child, looking vaguely disappointed when it doesn’t break. “You’re not allowed to fall in,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
“Do I need to explain hypothermia to you?” He straightens up and pulls me in by the scarf, kissing me hard enough that I forget what I was going to say next. He manages to get snow inside my collar — don’t ask me how — and I retaliate by shoving him backwards. It escalates, and we wrestle clumsily. He pins me against a tree, breathless and grinning, then I bite his lip hard enough to make him call me an “arsehole.”
Back at the cabin, clothes come off at some point, and we end up on the floor again, then the bed, then the floor, then the bed. It blurs together like we’re stretching the hours by breaking them into pieces.
Much later, he’s lying on his back staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on my thigh.
“Hey,”
“Mm?”
“You’re quiet.”
“I am allowed to be quiet.”
“Yes,” he says. “But you arestrategicallyquiet.”
I huff a laugh and roll onto my side, propping my head on my hand. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” he says. “I’m... noticing.”
I study his face, noting the faint crease between his brows and the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking. “Niko comes tomorrow,” I say, acknowledging the elephant in the room.
“And then I go back.” We sit with that for a moment, then he reaches out and flicks my forehead. “You’re scowling.”
“I always scowl.”
“No,” he says. “This one’s special.” I roll my eyes and shove him lightly. He catches my wrist and pulls me back down against him. “We’re not doing speeches,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“Good.” That’s it. That’s the agreement. No more words required.
Evening comes quietly; the fire gets rebuilt, and dinner is simple. There’s too much touching and too many looks held for a second too long.
Later, when he’s half-asleep and warm beside me, fingers tracing lazy shapes against my arm, I let myself press closer. He tells me I’m “clingy,” and I disagree, obviously.
ELEVEN
CAIDEN
I wake up because my brain is already sabotaging me by tracking time. It’s still dark enough that the corners of the room look murky, and the first thought I have is simple and practical. It’s Monday. Niko will come, and if I lie here pretending that isn’t true, it won’t buy me anything except a worse start.
Ari is in front of me, my arm thrown over his waist, my hand settled low on his stomach, and his breathing is slow and even. Like this, he’s just a man in a bed in a cabin who is asleep with me because I’m here and he can.
