Chapter 11 #2
Jake stood there, frozen in place. He looked like a ghost. His heavy wool coat was encased in a shell of clear ice. His hair was frozen into stiff spikes. His lips were a terrifying shade of blue, and his skin was the color of old porcelain.
“Wes?” Jake’s voice was a violent chatter, teeth clicking together like dice. “Is—is that you?”
“I got you.” Wes grabbed him. It was like hugging a statue. The coat was hard, unyielding ice. But beneath it, he felt the tremors racking Jake’s body. “I got you, baby. I got you.”
Jake went limp, his endurance failing the moment he realized he didn’t have to take another step. “Car—” he stammered, leaning heavily into Wes. “Wrecked the car... back there. Mile... maybe two.”
“Fuck the car.” Wes held him tighter, panic spiking at how cold Jake felt even through his own jacket. “You walked two miles in this?”
“Promised,” Jake slurred, his eyes unfocused, lashes clumped with ice. “Said... today. Meant... today.”
“I know. I know you did.”
Jake’s legs gave out completely. He buckled. Wes caught him, grunting with the effort, hauling him up. He wrapped an arm around Jake’s waist and half-carried, half-dragged him toward the idling truck.
He shoved Jake into the passenger seat. Jake sat there, stiff as a board, staring straight ahead, shivering so hard the seatbelt buckle rattled against the doorframe.
Wes ran around to the driver’s side, jumped in, and cranked the heater until the fan roared. He reached across the console, grabbing Jake’s icy hands and rubbing them vigorously between his gloved palms.
“You idiot,” Wes muttered, tears burning his eyes as the fear finally caught up to him. “You stubborn, beautiful idiot. You could have died.”
Jake looked at him, slow and dazed, a faint spark of life returning to his eyes. “Did I... did I make it?”
Wes put the truck in gear, carefully turning it around on the slick road to head back toward home.
“Yeah, Jake,” he choked out. “You made it.”
Holiday Pines Farm
6:40 PM
The entry into the farmhouse was a flurry of chaos.
The wind caught the heavy oak door, nearly ripping it from Wes’s hand, but he kicked it shut, dead-bolting the storm out.
“He ran off the road,” Wes said, panting.
Henry looked up from his chair. He took in the sight of them—Wes frantic and flushed, supporting Jake’s weight. Jake was as pale as death, shivering so hard his whole body vibrated.
“You walked from the wreck?” Henry asked.
Jake couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his jaw locked.
“Stubborn fool,” Henry muttered. There was no malice in it. It sounded like a commendation. “You fit right in with this family.”
“Pop, he’s hypothermic,” Wes said, panicked. “He’s stopped shaking. That’s bad, right?”
“It ain’t good. Don’t bring him near the fire yet,” Henry commanded, pointing a gnarled finger. “It’ll hurt too much to thaw that fast. Chilblains.”
Henry looked Wes in the eye. “Take him upstairs. Heat rises. Put him in your bed—not the guest room—and pile every quilt we own on top of him. Share body heat.”
Wes stared at his father. It was an order. It was permission.
“Go on,” Henry barked. “Take the whiskey bottle too.”
“Thank you,” Wes whispered.
He hoisted Jake up, guiding him toward the narrow staircase.
Upstairs
6:50 PM
The bedroom was freezing. Without the central heat rising through the vents, the upstairs air was crisp enough to see their breath in the beam of the battery-powered lantern Wes set on the dresser.
The sound of the storm changed up here. It was no longer the crack of trees; it was the relentless ping-ping-ping of ice pelting the roof, inches above their heads. It was a deafening, isolating sound.
“Clothes,” Wes commanded, his voice trembling. “Off. Now. Wet wool is rushing the freeze.”
He turned to Jake. Jake was fumbling with the buttons of his peacoat, his fingers stiff and useless claws. He whimpered in frustration.
“Stop,” Wes said. “Let me.”
He carefully pushed Jake’s hands away, working the frozen buttons, stripping the heavy coat.
It hit the floor with a thud. Next, the suit jacket.
Then the tie. He worked with frantic efficiency, kneeling, untying Jake’s shoes, peeling off the wet socks.
Jake’s feet were blocks of ice, white and waxy.
“Hurts,” Jake whispered.
“I know. It’s the blood coming back.”
Wes stood, unbuttoning Jake’s shirt, then his pants. He left him in his boxer briefs. Jake stood there, hugging himself, shivering violently again—a good sign, the body fighting back.
“Drink some.” Wes held the whiskey bottle while Jake tilted his head back for a small sip. “That’s good.”
Wes put the bottle on his nightstand and pulled back the mountain of blankets—his down comforter, the heavy Amish quilt from the linen closet, and a wool throw.
“Now, get in.”
Jake dove in, curling into a tight ball in the center of the mattress.
Wes stripped off his own flannel, boots, and jeans, tossing them into the corner. He slid into the bed beside Jake.
The sensory shock was intense. The air in the room was biting, nipping at Wes’s shoulders, but under the heavy weight of the blankets, a pocket of warmth was already forming.
“C-c-cold,” Jake stuttered, his teeth chattering.
“I know. Come here.”
Wes pulled Jake against him. He wrapped his arms around Jake’s torso and tangled their legs together. He made himself big, a blanket of human warmth. He rubbed his hands up and down Jake’s back, creating friction, forcing heat into the skin.
“You came back,” Wes whispered into Jake’s hair, which was damp and smelled of sleet and shampoo. “You walked through a storm for me.”
“Couldn’t... stay away,” Jake managed. His breath hitched. “Meeting ran late. Didn’t want you to think–”
“It’s OK. I know,” Wes said softly into the dark of the cocoon, then whispered, “I told him.”
Jake stiffened against him. “Henry?”
“I told him I loved you. I told him I was risking the truck to get you because I was in love with you.”
Jake pulled back just enough to see Wes’s face in the dim light filtering through the heavy weave of the blankets. His lips were regaining their color. “And?”
“And he told me to bring you home.” Wes brushed a thumb over Jake’s cheekbone. “You’re home, Jake.”
The reality of it hit Jake. The adrenaline of the crash, the terror of the walk, the pain of the cold—it all drained away, leaving behind a raw, aching need.
He stopped shivering. He pushed closer, pressing his body against Wes’s, skin to skin, heat to heat.
“Make me warm, Wes,” Jake said. “Please.”
The request wasn’t just about temperature.
Wes kissed him. It started slow—a soft pressing of lips, sharing warm breath. Jake tasted of whiskey and winter. Wes deepened it, his tongue sweeping into Jake’s mouth, claiming him.
There was no hesitation now. No fear of the door opening. No listening for the floorboards to creak.
Wes’s hand slid down Jake’s back, finding the waistband of his briefs. “Yeah. I’ll make you warm.”
They shucked their underwear under the covers, kicking it to the bottom of the bed. The friction of skin on skin was electric. Wes reached for the nightstand drawer, fumbling in the dark for the tube of lube he kept there for solo sessions.
He paused, the tube in his hand, looking at Jake in the shadows.
“Jake,” Wes said, his voice rough. “I don’t have—”
“It’s okay,” Jake said quickly, breathless. “I’m safe. I had a full physical and bloodwork the week before I came to Spoon—company policy for our additional insurance. Results are on my phone. I’m negative across the board.”
“I believe you,” Wes said instantly. “I haven’t been with anyone in three years. And I’ve had physicals since then. I’m clean.”
“I trust you,” Jake breathed, opening his legs, tilting his hips up. “I trust you with everything.”
Wes slicked his hand with the jelly. The scent was familiar, grounding. He reached between them, stroking Jake until a moan escaped his lips, then Wes moved his hand lower, finding the burgeoning heat between Jake’s legs.
Jake gasped, burying his face in the crook of Wes’s neck. “Yes. Please, yes.”
Wes took his time. He used his fingers to open Jake up, careful and slow, respecting the cold, respecting the exhaustion. But Jake was eager, pressing back against Wes’s hand, desperate for the connection, for the proof that he was alive and safe.
When Wes finally moved over him, bracing his weight on his elbows to keep the heavy blankets tented around them, Jake looked up. His eyes were dark pools in the shadows.
“Mine,” Wes growled softly.
He pushed inside.
The heat was blinding. It was a stark, beautiful contrast to the ice coating the windowpane barely five feet away. Jake let out a wrecked sound, wrapping his legs around Wes’s waist, pulling him deeper, anchoring him.
Wes moved with a slow, grinding rhythm. He didn’t want to rush. He wanted to feel every inch. He wanted to erase the distance of the last twenty-four hours. He wanted to burn the memory of the ditch out of Jake’s mind with every thrust.
“I love you,” Wes said, the words tumbling out against Jake’s neck. “I love you, Jake.”
“Love you,” Jake sobbed, clutching Wes’s shoulders. “So much.”
They moved together until the friction was unbearable, until the heat under the covers was a physical weight.
When Jake came, he cried out, his body arching off the mattress.
Wes followed him seconds later, burying his face in Jake’s shoulder, pouring everything he had into the man who had fought his way through a storm to get to him.
They collapsed, chests heaving, sweat cooling rapidly on their skin.
Wes didn’t pull away. He stayed there, holding Jake, keeping him grounded. But as their breathing slowed, something shifted in him. A wall he hadn’t known was there—a wall built of pride, and leading the family, and always having to be the rock—crumbled.
He wanted to give that up. Just for a moment. He wanted to be held.
He rolled off, but he didn’t let go. He maneuvered them, shifting until he was on his back. He looked up at Jake.
“Wes?” Jake asked, confused, hand hovering over Wes’s chest.
“I trust you, too,” Wes said. His voice was vulnerable, stripped bare in the dark. “With everything. I want... I need you to have me.”
He handed Jake the tube from the nightstand.
Jake went still. He understood what this was. This wasn’t just sex; this was Wes laying his burden down. It was the ultimate surrender of control from a man who gripped control like a lifeline.
Jake’s touch was reverent. He kissed Wes deeply, tasting the salt of dried tears. He prepped Wes slowly, murmuring praises that Wes absorbed like parched earth absorbing rain.
“You’re beautiful,” Jake said. “You’re so strong. Let me take it for a while. Let me take the weight.”
When Jake slid inside him, Wes came undone.
It was a fullness that stole his breath. Wes gripped Jake’s forearms, his head thrown back into the pillow, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Jake moved with a tenderness that stripped away every defense Wes had left. He rocked into him, whispering, “I've got you, Wes. You can let go.”
And Wes did. He let go of the farm. He let go of the fear for his father’s health. He let go of the grief for his mother. He simply existed in the heat and the motion of the man above him.
When the second release came, it was gentle and complete. Wes trembled in Jake’s arms, safe and sound.
Minutes later—or maybe hours—they lay tangled together in the absolute dark. The lantern battery had died, leaving them in blackness. The room was freezing, cold enough to kill, but inside their cocoon of quilts, it was tropical.
Wes pulled the duvet up over their heads, sealing them in.
“Make room,” Wes mumbled, sleep tugging at him like a tide. He wrapped his arm around Jake’s waist, pulling him back against his chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jake promised, interlacing their fingers.
“I know,” Wes said.
Outside, the ice storm raged on, snapping trees and burying the world in silence, but inside the farmhouse, the thaw was complete.