TEN
ARSENY
As I open my eyes, my brain does a half-hearted sweep and then stalls, distracted by the warm and solid body pressed against my back.
Caiden is sprawled behind me, one arm thrown over my waist, his hand flat against my stomach.
His breathing is slow and even, and I lie there, staring at the wall, letting the reality of that sink in.
“Mm,” he answers, asleep enough that it barely qualifies as speech. His nose presses into the back of my neck, and I close my eyes for a few seconds longer.
When I finally extract myself, it’s a slow, careful operation. I peel his arm away inch by inch, replacing myself with a pillow so he doesn’t notice the loss of contact, then rolling out of bed without jostling him.
He frowns faintly, but doesn’t wake up.
I pull on clothes quietly and step outside.
The cold hits me like a slap that clears my head properly.
The sky is a pale, washed-out winter blue.
The snow covers everything in smooth, unbroken lines except for our tracks from yesterday.
I breathe the cold in until my lungs burn, trying to take my mind off the fact that this is the last full day.
I don’t say it out loud; I acknowledge it silently. Then I circle the cabin once smoking a cigarette out of habit more than necessity. Everything is quiet. There’s no movement in the trees or sounds of distant engines, only wind through branches and the faint creak of wood.
When I go back inside, Caiden is awake.
He’s sitting up in bed, hair wrecked, blinking at the empty space beside him like he’s briefly offended by my absence. When he sees me, the tension drains from his shoulders so visibly it almost makes me laugh. “There you are,” he says.
“Were you planning to issue a missing persons report?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies without hesitation. “With accusations.” I snort and move into the kitchen. He follows, shirtless and barefoot, with no sense of personal space, leaning his weight against my back while I reach for the kettle.
“You escaped,” he accuses mildly.
“I went outside.”
“You left the bed.”
“Tragic.”
He presses his forehead between my shoulder blades. “You could have woken me.”
“You were sleeping,” I say. “I’m not a monster.”
“That’s debatable.” I flick the kettle on and turn just enough to look at him. Then I lean in and kiss him, just to shut him up. It works — of course — he makes a quiet, pleased sound and steals another before I can pull away.
Breakfast happens without discussion. Eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee strong enough to be an act of violence. After, he pulls on layers and looks at me expectantly. “So...”
“So,” I echo.
“What are we doing today?”
I consider that because there are a hundred answers and none of them lasts long enough. “Out,” I decide. “Before we start pacing.”
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 are strategically quiet.”
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.