14. Cinn
fourteen
Cinn
T he Beaumonts were supposed to go to Darcy’s cousins’ in Kensington for most of Christmas Day, but Alexander had experienced two dizzy spells the day prior. Between that and the umbraphage attack, they decided it was best to stay put in the townhouse.
The Westminster incident certainly put a dampener on yesterday evening’s festivities. Their living room housed a tiny television, which everyone crowded around to watch the news. The catastrophic weather event had spanned across the whole of London, causing flooding in several boroughs.
Even though the unblessed couldn’t see the umbraphages—which Cinn was still processing—he’d maintained that there must have been some sort of footage of something. However , Darcy informed him Viktor Sturmhart had moteblessed positioned in every large media company and every government department. The handful of deaths were blamed on the hurricane, and then the news moved on to a celebrity dressed up as Santa caught passed out drunk on the street. Classy.
“We’ll have more fun staying with you four today, anyway,” Fiona said at the breakfast table, once everyone had made it out of bed.
The Buck’s Fizz was already being served liberally. Christmas with Cinn’s mum had always started this way too—the difference being that she’d play cheesy Christmas songs, whereas Julien had somehow found a radio station playing smooth jazz instrumental Christmas classics. Though Julien was already wearing the paper crown Cinn had made for him—a swirl of red and silver to accentuate the shades of gold in his hair—so he couldn’t moan too much.
Was his mum wearing the one he’d given her yesterday? Did she have people to spend the day with? The alternative made him unbearably sad. Surely she’d have friends, maybe even a new partner. There were so many questions he wished he’d thought to ask.
Next time.
The Beaumonts insisted on cooking the Christmas lunch without any assistance, despite Cinn’s credentials of being a former semi-professional chef. They obviously didn’t trust him with such an important task.
So Cinn found himself in the living room, lit only by soft fairy lights, sprawled across the sofa with Julien. It wasn’t quite a Christmas jumper, but Julien was wearing a thick, patterned cardigan, and Cinn’s gaze kept hitching on it. Julien looked different in it. Looked nice in it. Looked softer, like the wool it was made from. Squishable.
He’d accidentally grabbed on to it, because now Julien was grinning at him.
“Mince pie crumbs,” mumbled Cinn, patting it down.
Julien pulled Cinn’s legs onto his lap, his hands drifting at once to the three stitches installed just under Cinn’s knee, gliding his fingers over them gently.
Cinn shot him a glare; he looked like he was about to repeat the same bullshit he’d spewed last night, after he’d kissed each of his wounds in turn. Julien had a similar number of stitches himself, but he wouldn’t shut up about how awful he felt, and how next time Cinn wasn’t going within ten miles of the danger. Cinn told him to shut the fuck up, considering Cinn had been way more useful on the bridge than Julien, anyway.
Julien grabbed his face, turning it into the light. “Just checking your eyes are still normal. They were so black. You looked terrifying. Like a demon.”
“I think it was a one-time thing,” Cinn muttered. His thoughts churned as he replayed the events at Westminster for the umpteenth time.
When he’d lost control of his own body, it had been horrific in a surreal, distant way. Like being trapped in a dream, aware but powerless to change anything, as his own limbs moved without him.
Then, Béatrice had climbed inside his shadow—or whatever had happened—and he’d felt an unsettling mix of exhilaration and unease. The sensation of wielding the shadow like an extra limb felt like a searing current running through his veins, both electrifying and unnervingly invasive. Even once it had vanished, a disquieting sense remained—that this… shadow was now a part of him in ways he couldn’t yet grasp. It felt like a heavy, intrusive guest in his mind, its dark tendrils still clinging to his consciousness.
Something whacked him on the nose—a bauble from the overdressed Christmas tree. “Why are you so glum?” asked Elliot. “Are you still upset they wouldn’t even let you cook the potatoes?”
“It’s just a bit weird today,” said Cinn. “Like yesterday didn’t happen. Like those people didn’t die. The world has just gone on.”
The world would go on. Until it didn’t, according to the umbraphage.
Darcy came over to wrap her arms around Cinn. He tensed for a fraction of a moment, then relaxed into her.
“You’re allowed to forget about that today. It’ll still all be there tomorrow. Presents?” Darcy said brightly, then scampered over to the tree like an excited puppy, sorting gifts into piles. “Come on then,” she said, patting the floor.
Cinn fetched his gifts from the bedroom. He’d spent a fair bit of time yesterday patching up the paper after Béatrice’s handiwork had destroyed the perfectly adequate wrapping he’d been proud of. When he returned, the others were sitting around the tree, and Darcy had arranged gifts in a pile for him .
It wasn’t like Cinn hadn’t ever got a Christmas present before. He had a treasured refillable silver lighter from Tyler somewhere in the bottom of his rucksack, his initials engraved on it. And Bradley usually bought him his favourite chocolate, a Cadbury’s Spira.
But this pile of gifts, small in size, was monumental in significance. He fought with a lump in his throat, mumbling his thanks, eyes downcast.
For some reason, the protocol seemed to be watching each other open the gifts in a round robin, rather than being normal and everyone quickly opening them all at once.
Darcy suppressed a laugh when she held up her present from Cinn, a lopsidedly wrapped gift adorned with mismatched tape and crooked folds. She unwrapped it in milliseconds, revealing a squashed, battered box.
“Tea!”
She was at least pretending to be enthusiastic, which was kind. As usual, Cinn had been on a very limited budget.
“Vanilla Rooibos. The guy said it was kinda similar to chai.”
She beamed at him, and Cinn shuffled on the floor, averting his gaze. He wasn’t sure he could stand all this for long. Perhaps he could escape to the kitchen and outright insist he did the potatoes. It would only be polite.
Thankfully, Elliot disembowelled his presents at the speed of light, turning the floor into a sea of shiny foil.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cinn’s gaze caught on something in the dark shadow of the Christmas tree. A slinky, sinewy tail, flicking around the crimson tree stand. Was this all entertaining Béatrice? She could come out and apologise for Cinn’s wrapping, if she liked.
“Your turn!”
Three pairs of expectant eyes turned to Cinn.
Inwardly sighing, he began .
Darcy’s parcel contained two tiny jars—one containing the delicate pyramid-shaped crystals of Maldon sea salt, and one containing saffron threads. She informed him he also had some kitchen knives waiting back at home that wouldn’t have made it through the airport security.
Elliot gave him a guilty smirk as Cinn unwrapped his rectangular present to find Decadent Delights: The Ultimate Dessert Collection for the Pro-Baker , of which he’d gone through and sticky tabbed his favourites. So kind.
Cinn groaned, pressing the book to his forehead. “For the last time, I’m a chef, not a baker.” Then he flashed a warm smile at Elliot to show his appreciation.
It did not surprise Cinn in the least to find Julien’s presents meticulously wrapped, crisp folds and red bows that bordered on origami-level skill.
“Are we safe to watch you two open each other’s presents, or will I throw up from cuteness overload?” asked Darcy, scrutinising Julien with wariness.
“You’re welcome to leave the room,” Julien retorted.
Cinn hesitated for a moment, pulling his face into a neutral expression. Then, one tug of red ribbon later, a pair of silk pyjama bottoms fell into Cinn’s lap.
He laughed.
The label, a French brand Cinn didn’t recognise, informed him they were crafted from the finest mulberry silk. The fabric had a subtle sheen that caught the flashing Christmas lights, highlighting their rich, deep olive-green colour that was remarkably similar to his beanie.
“I hear they’re rip proof,” Julien said, in a completely casual voice that did nothing to stop Cinn’s cheeks from burning as his eyes traitorously glanced between Darcy and Elliot.
“Let’s hope,” Cinn muttered .
“There’s another one,” said Julien, eyes twinkling with an excitement that caused Cinn’s anxiety to return with fresh vigour.
“Darcy owes me a fiver,” announced Elliot, then sniggered. “Because she insisted you’d have got him at least three.”
“You two have no lives,” Julien retorted. He may then have mumbled something about another four presents back at Auri that Cinn ignored.
Desperate to move the spotlight along from him, he opened the next present far too quickly, sending a pile of cassettes scattering across the wooden floorboards, chased after by a dozen AA batteries that rolled in every direction. Cinn reached for the tapes, fearing Julien had decided to ‘educate’ him with some blues or jazz, but found instead some of the Pearl Jam albums he didn’t own, and something by a newish band named Wu-Tang Clan. Julien nudged the final cassette towards him with his foot, but it was one he’d recognise from a mile away— Doolittle by the Pixies.
What ?
For a moment, he thought it was his own copy, the one that ended up royally fucked from years of relentless rewinding. However, this cassette was in a plastic wrap, brand new.
“How did you—”
“I found the remnants of it in the bin the other day. What did you do to it, use it as a chew toy?”
Cinn peeled off the wrap, and popped out the tape, running his fingers over its immaculate shiny surface, ready for him to undoubtedly scratch and dent again.
Julien looked rather proud of himself, preening for praise.
Ordinarily he’d give him shit for it, or at least attempt to, but today the fuzziness in his chest softened any sarcasm on the tip of his tongue.
“Thank you,” fell out as a whisper as he locked eyes with Julien, who was smiling at Cinn in a different sort of way. No smirk, no edge of wickedness, only a gentle upwards tilt of the lips, a gleam of white teeth, a melting of grey eyes. It was possibly the most genuine smile he’d ever seen from Julien. He wanted more. He’d collect them like gems, store them in the crevices of his mind to brighten the darkest days.
“Right, let’s get this over with,” Darcy interjected. “We’re not spending all Christmas Day swooning over you two. Give Julien his present, Cinn.”
Elliot cackled. “This is top-tier entertainment, Darce. What else could you possibly want to be doing right now?”
Cinn’s stomach clenched as he handed over Julien’s. He’d wanted to give it to him in private. Alas, no such luck.
The paper practically fell apart in Julien’s hands, and Cinn cringed. “I ran out of tape to fix your one.” He became uncomfortably aware of the increasing rate of his heartbeat as Julien held up the black mass of wool that was vaguely scarf-shaped.
“It’s… wonderful,” Julien said.
The style of the scarf drastically changed halfway through—neat rows of tightly interwoven yarn descended into an erratic, uneven pattern with loose, tangled strands that Cinn wouldn’t want to test.
“It’s fucking awful, don’t lie. Half of it looks like a cat attacked it,” Cinn said, wincing, then held his breath, waiting to see if Julien would even understand what he was looking at exactly.
Julien carded his fingers through the professionally knitted half of the black scarf, recollection dawning on his face.
Finally .
“Wait. Is this… the scarf that Béatrice was halfway through knitting for me? The one on her desk?”
It hadn’t escaped Cinn’s notice that Julien hadn’t put Béatrice’s locket back on since the day he’d taken it off.
If Julien didn’t want to wear that, would he even want this scarf?
Cinn unclenched his fists which had formed tight balls in his lap. “Yeah. Don’t be pissed that I fucked up her work, okay? I tried to make Darcy help me, but she had no clue either.” He shot Darcy a scowl, like the end result was all her fault. “I tried. Knitting’s hard. I stabbed myself about eight times. There’s probably blood all over it.”
With a slap of her legs, Darcy jumped to her feet. “Right, I’ve hit my limit. Elliot, let’s crack open the mulled wine.”
They disappeared, closing the living-room door behind them.
Alone, the room stilled, and an age stretched out before Julien finally declared, “I love it,” a rough edge of something in his voice. “It’s my new favourite thing.”
“I don’t actually expect you to wear it or anything.” Cinn bit into his lip, tearing his eyes from the scarf to stare into a large red bauble hanging on the tree. “But I kept thinking about how she’d never finish it, and how it would just lie on her desk, unfinished, forever. I thought she’d want me to finish it. And you got me this hat, so now we’re even.”
“Cinn.”
“What?”
Julien shuffled across the hardwood floor to cup Cinn’s cheek, forcing him to look at him. He stroked his thumb over Cinn’s cheekbone, and Cinn’s breath audibly hitched.
“Don’t you dare tell me you spent hours learning how to knit so we can be even .”
Pinned in place and rendered speechless by the intensity behind Julien’s gaze, Cinn could only swallow.
Julien’s voice dropped to a soft hush. “Because I won’t believe you.”
Cinn must have bit into his lip again, because Julien was tugging it free, tipping his chin upwards.
“Well, yeah, like I said, I did it for Béatrice mainly.” And Cinn rather liked the idea of Julien walking around wearing a piece of him, in some small way. “And you look good in black stuff,” Cinn added begrudgingly. Hopefully Julien would leave it at that .
“ Oui , that is true.” Julien wrapped the scarf around his neck, then pouted like a catwalk model, his dimples flashing like twinkling stars.
At that moment, Darcy burst back into the room, holding the largest jug of steaming mulled wine Cinn had ever seen. “Who’s ready to get sloshed?” she shouted, sounding well on her way already.
Christmas dinner was a surprisingly lavish affair.
Fiona dressed the table of the townhouse’s modest dining room to Michelin Star standards, complete with napkin swans and crystal wine glasses.
Once they were all seated, Alexander placed a large white taper candle in the middle of the table. “I thought we would light this for Béatrice,” he said, looking to Julien, whose mouth fell open.
“ Merci ,” Julien replied at last. “That’s so thoughtful of you.”
“She was such a lovely lass.” Alexander sat down, his hand slipping into Fiona’s open palm.
Fuck . Cinn hadn’t even properly considered this would be Julien’s first Christmas without her. Not that he’d ever enjoyed the holiday, apparently, but still…
He eyed the shadows in the room’s corners. Was Béatrice here, lurking? Perhaps she’d appreciate some meat scraps in addition to the candle…
Mountains of food were delivered to their plates. Cinn had to admit it—the Beaumonts’ Christmas dinner turned out delicious without his assistance. Although, the roast potatoes weren’t quite as crispy as he would have made them, using goose fat and extra salt.
Darcy sat wedged between her two parents, and Cinn’s attention kept snagging on the three of them. How they were such a tight family unit. How Fiona knew Darcy would want extra gravy. How Alexander groaned when Darcy reminded him to take his medicine.
It wasn’t like he’d spent the last decade feeling sorry for himself for being parentless. But the glimpse into their ‘normal’ family dynamic stirred up the tiniest bit of unexpected longing within him.
When the time came for dessert, mortification about the chocolate log he’d made much earlier froze Cinn in his seat, pretending he didn’t notice Darcy’s meaningful glances. Perhaps he could just slide it into the bin later.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Darcy eventually snapped, leaping up from the dining table with a loud scrape. She appeared a minute later with the cake in tow. It looked a bit haphazard from its time hiding at the back of the fridge, but its rich chocolatey exterior still gleamed under the dining-room lights. It wasn’t half bad, considering Cinn’s limited resources.
“ La b?che !” Julien immediately exclaimed, and Cinn wanted to crawl under the table.
Cinn begged Darcy with his eyes, but it was a lost cause. There was no way she’d pass up on the free show.
Darcy threw the log down unceremoniously right in front of Julien. “The poor slave you guilted into making this for you was up at midnight preparing it. It took him hours, so you best pretend this is the most delicious chocolate log of your life.”
Elliot was quietly laughing to himself while Fiona and Alexander looked upon the scene with a fair bit of confusion.
Cinn groaned. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration. It was four a.m., not midnight. And for the last time, I—”
“You made this for me?” Julien asked softly, voice brimming with marvel.
Every single pair of eyes bored into Cinn, who was surely scarlet by now. He glared at Darcy. I’m going to fucking kill you .
“Of course he did. What did you expect, after your tantrum about it?” she continued, regardless of Cinn’s death stare.
Julien turned to him, genuinely surprised in a way Cinn hadn’t seen before, eyes wide as saucers. Possibly on the verge of tears.
Why on earth did his past self think this was a good idea? Especially after the scarf, as well. He may as well scream his tragically hopeless adoration from the rooftops at this rate.
“No! Not exactly. It’s a thing people have at Christmas, right? Everyone likes it.” Cinn cringed at the volume his voice had reached.
Fiona coughed. “I’ll certainly have some, if it isn’t all for Julien.”
Cinn shut his eyes, leaned back in the chair, and prayed for the ground to swallow him whole.
Elliot saved him by redirecting attention, reading out every joke from their crackers in a monotonous deadpan voice. But Julien seemed not to listen, only wanting to stare at Cinn between mouthfuls of cake, his stormy grey eyes glowing with a soft warmth that spoke volumes.
“Stop it,” Cinn hissed. “It was only a bloody chocolate log.”
But Julien’s smug cat-got-the-cream grin remained in place until it was time to clear the table, with Cinn jumping up to do the dishes before anyone else had a chance to offer.
They retired to the living room, where Julien played several rounds of Scrabble in French with Alexander. Julien won every time, which made sense, with how Alexander barely seemed to know the language.
Cinn and Elliot had much more fun. Fiona took off her pair of reindeer antlers , and they took turns wearing them while the other threw rings fashioned out of tin foil onto them for points.
Darcy mocked the game, then ultimately mediated it, shouting at Elliot for cheating using windmotes to knock the rings on course, completely unbeknownst to Cinn.
Before long, the room was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, and the festive energy mellowed into a cosy calm as the day drew to a close .
True, there wasn’t stiff competition, but it had easily been Cinn’s favourite Christmas ever. Maybe even one of his favourite days, full stop.
“See,” Cinn whispered, tugging on the black woollen scarf Julien insisted on wearing for the entire day despite the fifty degree heat from the roaring fire. “Christmas isn’t so bad, right?”
Julien leaned towards him, bringing the smell of the mulled wine he’d had countless glasses of. “Nothing could ever be bad if you’re there with me,” he said, slightly slurring. He kissed the bulge of Cinn’s cheek, the smile he’d created. “But…”
Julien kissed the corner of Cinn’s mouth, and it was all Cinn could do not to grab Julien’s neck, pull him into the kiss he wanted to give him, one inappropriate for the eyes of others. The taste of wine was a whole different experience from Julien’s mouth.
“Maybe if you agree to make me la b?che every year, I’ll come to love it.”
Every year.
The words were doing weird things to his insides. Warm things. Fuzzy things.
Cinn opened his mouth to give Julien shit. “I—”
Two twin shouts of alarm erupted from the other side of the living room. Alexander, sitting in an aged rocking chair next to the fire, had dropped his drink, sending a cascade of mulled wine splashing across the floorboards, shattered glass scattering in all directions. His hand clutched at his chest, eyes wide with pain and panic, as he gasped for breath.
Cinn sprang to his feet, lurched towards the man, then rocked back on the balls of his feet—Darcy and Fiona were already crowding him. Elliot spluttered something about ringing for an ambulance and dashed out of the room, leaving Cinn to turn to Julien, whose face mirrored his own fear as Darcy’s father began to make laboured, wheezing sounds.
“Julien, get my luggage bag!” Darcy yelled. “Bring the entire thing! ”
Julien narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips in his telltale sign he was about to argue, then disappeared without a word.
Lingering uselessly on the periphery, Cinn steadily retreated until he had his back against the curtains, well out of the way. The urgent flurry around him was a dreamlike bubble that he was very much on the outside of.
Keeping remarkably calm, Darcy and Fiona tried to keep Alexander conscious, speaking to him in soothing tones. When Alexander’s head lolled to one side, however, Fiona let out a small cry, composure cracking.
Cinn found himself clutching the curtain, the fabric crumpling tightly in his grip as he fought to keep his own rising panic at bay. Was he about to watch Darcy’s father die, right before his eyes? The man who’d spent thirty minutes with him in the middle of the night, helping him drag out baking ingredients? Who was so clearly adored by his wife and daughter?
Cinn’s own breathing became unsteady as the corners of his vision swam.
No. Not now!
Instinctively, he glanced down at his wrist, where his warding band was conspicuously absent, smashed to pieces by the umbraphage yesterday.
The last thing everyone needed currently was for Cinn to shadowslip, and become another unconscious body, causing a scene. His headphones were in the other room. He could go get them. Though, what would it look like if he started listening to music through all this?
Julien burst back into the room, sending Darcy’s small blue suitcase sliding across the wood towards her. She kneeled, her hands shooting straight to the seam where the zipper would be, her fingers fumbling desperately to find it, her entire arms visibly shaking.
One moment, Cinn was clutching the curtains, then the next, his knees were hitting the floor alongside Darcy, pushing her hands out of the way to swiftly unzip the bag. She offered him the quickest flash of a smile before she tipped the contents onto the floor, immediately sighting her target: a transparent organiser stuffed with tiny pots and vials.
“The ambulance will be another twenty,” Elliot said from the doorway. “I tried telling them it was an emergency, and they gave me lip back.”
All eyes drifted back to Alexander. Had his breathing grown even shallower? His face was certainly paling as he lay slumped in the chair, his eyes fluttering weakly. He was trying to say something—Fiona’s name?
His wife took his pulse with two fingers against his neck. Then her gaze levelled with Darcy’s, who was holding a vial containing a clear liquid. Fiona gave her one decisive nod, though she didn’t look happy about it.
“What is that?” Cinn asked Julien quietly. “Do you know?”
“Something Darcy and her friend cooked up the other day. It’s perfectly safe. Probably. Worst-case scenario, it doesn’t do much. Hopefully. It’s some sort of blend of mote-enhanced extracts, to stimulate cardiac function.”
Fiona produced a syringe, needle, and tourniquet. Darcy passed her the vial.
“It should temporarily improve blood circulation. She’s just trying to buy time.”
From the other side of the wall, Elliot’s voice rose even higher, still arguing with the emergency dispatcher.
“Someone take this,” said Fiona, holding up the used needle.
Cinn’s arm shot out to grab it. He wrapped it in a piece of bubble wrap being kicked around before placing it in the small waste bin. His light-headedness had completely cleared—if anything, his senses had sharpened.
“They’re a minute away now,” shouted Elliot. “I threatened them,” he added proudly.
They allowed Elliot to pretend his demands had been met .
Cinn moved closer to Alexander’s rocking chair. “Is he doing any better?”
Taking her father’s pulse again, Darcy made a non-committal sound.
The minute passed quickly. The paramedics let themselves in, strapping Alexander to their cart in seconds. Fiona relayed information about his condition as they wheeled him outside. A small argument erupted about Darcy travelling in the ambulance as well as Fiona, her voice getting increasingly insistent until they gave in. They said a speedy goodbye to her tear-streaked face as she climbed into the vehicle.
“He’s stable for now,” Darcy reassured the three of them. “Stay here.”
Once the noise of the siren faded along with the blue lights, Cinn, Julien and Elliot went inside to a starkly quiet kitchen.
“I need another drink.” Julien poured out the dregs from the mulled wine jug.
Although Cinn had never felt so sober, he had no desire to numb the sharp sting of reality. He slid down the wall to slump on the cold tiles, resting his head against the fridge.
Elliot wound a piece of confetti string from a cracker around his finger. “They really need that pacemaker to go through, huh? Can’t you tap up your MEET connections, Julien?”
Julien took several large gulps of wine. “Medical stuff takes ages. They don’t want to kill people and such.”
It seemed like Alexander would die without it, but what did Cinn know about the bureaucracy of motetech?
“God, has it been a couple of days.” After draining the last of his glass, Julien threw himself down next to Cinn. He leaned his head on Cinn’s shoulder, nudging into the crook of his neck. Julien’s breath was warm against his skin, sending pleasant tingles dancing across it.
Julien had never been more correct—it’d been two roller-coasters of days, complete with dizzying loop-de-loops Cinn could have done without. He was entirely drained of every last inch of energy. Humming in agreement, he traced the outline of Julien’s knee through his corduroy trousers.
If Elliot weren’t in the room, he’d pull Julien into his lap, tangle his fingers up in his hair, kiss him until they forgot everything else and went back to talking about how great Christmas was. But he settled for a hand on Julien’s thigh, squeezing it tightly to communicate what he wanted to say in words: I’m here. The world might be falling apart around us, but I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Elliot busied himself with delivering glassware to the sink. They were making him uncomfortable. The feel of Julien pressed up against him was everything Cinn needed just then, but not at the expense of Elliot. Cinn began gently prying Julien off him by nudging him away. He paused when Julien reached out a sudden hand towards Elliot.
For a lengthy moment, Elliot looked unsure, blinking at Julien’s outstretched hand in mild confusion. Eventually, moving very slowly, he sank to the tiles to join them, wedging Julien in the middle. Julien nuzzled his head further into him and Cinn smiled against his hair.
Then, dragging both Elliot’s and Cinn’s hands onto his lap, Julien made a small, satisfied noise, and promptly fell silent, his breaths swiftly becoming deeper and deeper until it was apparent he’d somehow managed to fall asleep in the awkward position.
A soft laugh came from Elliot. “This idiot. Think we can move him so we can go smoke?”
Cinn gently tried to slip his hand free, but Julien let out a low, disgruntled sound that rumbled against Cinn’s neck, and tightened his grip, holding his hand with surprising firmness.
“I think we’re prisoners.” Cinn whispered.
Elliot chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “We’ll give our captor a pass, just this once. ”
Humming in agreement, Cinn shifted slightly, repositioning Julien so his head rested more securely against his chest, allowing Elliot to stretch out a little more beside them.
Cinn looked down at Julien’s peaceful face. With his free hand, he ran a finger over the bridge of his nose. He loved the rare moments he got to watch Julien sleep. It was the only time Cinn ever saw Julien truly relax. “Right now, this feels like exactly where we need to be.”