Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hailey
Days six and seven blur together in a haze of domesticity I’ve stopped questioning. We’ve found a rhythm, the three of us.
Cooking together, bumping elbows in the tiny kitchen while Liam and Knox argue about whether pasta should be al dente. Talking
for hours about nothing and everything. Touching constantly—hands finding hands, fingers tracing bare skin whenever we pass
each other, like we need the physical confirmation that the others are still here, still real.
The physical intimacy has opened up something emotional. We tell stories, share secrets. Knox talks about his time in the
Marines, the real version—what he saw, what he did, the friends he lost in Helmand. Liam talks about growing up in foster
care, about learning to build things and take them apart in the one house that almost kept him. And I tell them about Mrs.
Bilby, my neighbor who brings me soup every Sunday because she’s convinced I’m too skinny. I bring her lockpick tutorials
on YouTube because she keeps locking herself out, and neither of us has ever questioned this arrangement. How she would have
loved this—drinking wine in a cabin with two beautiful men, making the best of a bad situation with style.
The sex has changed too. Not less intense, but more varied.
Sometimes it’s dark and demanding—Knox pressing me into the mattress while Liam watches and tells him exactly where to touch me.
Sometimes it’s slow and devastating, the three of us tangled together, taking turns.
Sometimes it’s just holding each other, touching, being close.
The bed is too small for three people but we make it work.
I fall asleep listening to two different heartbeats and wake up with hands I can’t immediately identify sliding across my skin.
It’s domestic in a way that feels stolen.
Playing house in our prison, making memories we might not live to keep.
On the sixth night, Liam finds the record player.
He’s been poking around the cabin’s built-in shelves, the ones tucked beside the chimney that I assumed just held dusty books
and dead batteries. But there’s a cabinet door at the bottom I never noticed, and when he opens it, his face lights up.
“Look at this.”
He pulls out an ancient turntable, the kind with fold-out speakers and wood veneer finish. Underneath it, a stack of vinyl
albums so old they probably predate my grandmother.
“That thing still work?” Knox asks from where he’s stretched out on the couch.
“One way to find out.” Liam plugs it in, and miracle of miracles, the power light turns on. He flips through the albums, holding
up covers for us to see. Andy Williams. Nat King Cole. Dean Martin. And then he grins, holding up a Bing Crosby record. “White
Christmas.”
“Seriously?” Knox says.
But when Liam slides the vinyl out of its sleeve and sets it on the turntable, even Knox doesn’t object. The needle drops
with a soft crackle. Then that voice fills the cabin, warm and crooning, all dreams of a white Christmas and cards he’s writing.
I’m standing by the Christmas tree we decorated days ago, the one with Marlena’s hand-painted glass balls and delicate wooden
snowflakes and little silver birds with real feather details. The lights twinkle against the dark windows. It’s almost perfect.
Almost normal.
“Dance with me,” I say to Liam.
He doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room and takes my hand, pulling me close.
His other hand settles on my waist, warm through my sweater.
We sway together, not really dancing, just moving to the music in that way people do when they don’t care if they look stupid.
His chin rests on top of my head. I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek.
Knox watches from the couch. I can’t read his expression in the dim light, but there’s something soft about the way he’s looking
at us.
The song ends. Another begins, strings swelling into something slower.
“Your turn,” I say, reaching for Knox.
“I don’t dance.”
“Liar.” I tug at his hand, pulling him up from the couch. He resists for half a second before letting me drag him to his feet.
“You move too well to not know how to dance.”
“Moving well in general isn’t the same thing.”
“It’s all just rhythm and body awareness. Stop overthinking it.”
He’s stiff at first, holding me like I’m made of glass. But gradually, he relaxes. His grip loosens. His movements become
less robotic. By the second verse, we’re actually swaying together, his cheek brushing my temple.
“See?” I whisper. “Not so hard.”
He doesn’t answer, but he’s almost smiling.
The song changes again, something upbeat and jaunty. Liam appears at my elbow. “My turn.”
Knox releases me without argument. I step back and watch as Liam moves into his space. For a moment, neither of them moves.
They’re just looking at each other. Then Liam holds out his hand, and Knox takes it.
They don’t dance the way Knox danced with me. It’s different, more tentative. Liam’s hand on Knox’s shoulder, Knox’s hand
hovering somewhere around Liam’s ribs like he can’t decide where to put it. But they’re moving together, careful and intimate,
and a part of my chest cracks open watching them.
This is real. Whatever they’re building between them, it’s not just for me, not just because I wanted it. This is something
that belongs to them.
I sink onto the couch and let myself just watch. The tree lights blink in the corner. Bing Crosby croons about chestnuts and open fires. And two men I’m pretty sure I love sway together in the middle of our temporary prison, finding something soft in all this hardness.
Later, we exchange gifts. It started as a joke—Liam found a roll of ribbon in the junk drawer and suggested Secret Santa,
cabin edition. No actual presents allowed, just stuff found around here, points for creativity.
Knox gives me the ornament. One of the hand-painted glass balls from the tree, deep crimson with gold detailing.
“For good luck,” he says, pressing it into my palm.
“Knox.” My throat tightens. “This was on the tree.”
“Tree has plenty. It won’t miss one.”
He then gives Liam an ornament and tells him it’s for luck as well, but he seems a tinge uncomfortable with the exchange.
I close my fingers around the smooth glass. It’s warm from where he’s been holding it.
Liam goes next. He hands Knox a small object wrapped in a scrap of fabric torn from one of the dishtowels. Knox unwraps it
slowly, revealing a wooden snowflake about three inches across. The edges are uneven, clearly carved by hand, but the pattern
is intricate—six points, each one detailed with smaller branches radiating outward.
“Made it with a kitchen knife,” Liam says, trying for casual. “When you two were sleeping.”
“How did you even . . .” Knox turns the snowflake over in his hands, examining each carved line.
“I told you. I’m good with my hands.”
The look that passes between them makes my stomach flip.
Liam hands me a carved snowflake that is slightly different, but means just the same.
I hand them both their bracelets. Simple things, just braided string in three colors—red, green, and white. I found the string
in a craft box under the bathroom sink and spent yesterday afternoon weaving while the boys argued about escape routes.
“So we match,” I explain, holding up my wrist where I’m already wearing mine.
Liam puts his on immediately. Knox stares at his for a long moment before sliding it over his hand.
“We look like we’re at summer camp,” he says.
“Sexy summer camp,” Liam corrects.
“There’s no such thing as sexy summer camp.”
“Clearly you went to the wrong camps.”
I laugh, and it comes out watery. This is ridiculous. We’re locked in a cabin by a woman who’s obsessed with a diamond I buried
in frozen ground five years ago, and we’re sitting here exchanging handmade Christmas presents like we’re in some twisted
Hallmark movie. But it doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels like the truest thing that’s happened since we got here.
That night, after the record player has gone quiet and we’ve moved to the couch, Liam props himself up on one elbow.
“We need to talk about it,” he says. “Christmas Eve. Marlena’s deadline. What we’re actually going to do.”
I press my face into Knox’s chest. “Tomorrow.”
“Hailey—”
“One more night.” I reach back, finding Liam’s hand and lacing my fingers through his. “Give me one more night of this. Of
pretending we’re just three people who found each other. Tomorrow we have the hard conversation. Tomorrow we figure out how
to survive. But tonight . . .” I squeeze his hand. “Please.”
Silence. I can feel them communicating over my head, that wordless thing they’ve started doing.
“Tomorrow,” Knox agrees.
Liam’s body relaxes beside me. His arm comes around my waist, and I’m sandwiched between them, warm and safe and pretending
that’s enough.