Ophelia
When we arrive back at the chalet, it’s silent, as we’re the first ones to return. We step out into the crisp mountain air. My fingers ache from the cold by the time we push through the heavy oak doors.
Inside, warmth greets us instantly, a rush of firelight and the faint scent of cinnamon from whatever candle Adelaide must have lit this morning.
We shed our coats, boots, and gloves by the entryway, leaving behind a small puddle of melting snow.
We climb the stairs in silence to our room, and the thought catches in my mind.
Our room.
It shouldn’t sound like that. The words feel intimate and dangerous.
It isn’t supposed to be ours, and yet it is. I’ve had plenty of chances to tell him to sleep elsewhere, to insist, but I didn’t.
Because the truth is, I didn’t want him to.
The admission burns somewhere deep in my chest.
We change quietly. I take longer, pretending to fuss with my hair or the zip of my jumper, anything to delay facing him again.
By the time I come downstairs, he’s already in the living room, lounging on the sofa, his leg propped exactly where it shouldn’t be, no ice or elevation.
“You need to ice your ankle,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t even look up, eyes fixed on the fire he’s just lit. The flames cast his face in amber light, and for a second, I forget to be annoyed.
I sigh, head to the kitchen, and return with a towel wrapped pack of ice. He glares at it as though I’ve personally insulted him.
“Put your leg up,” I tell him.
“Ophelia, it’s—”
“Up,” I repeat. Before he can argue further I set the ice over the swelling.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse, but he lets me.
I fetch a blanket and sit beside him on the sofa, pulling it over my legs. A moment later, he reaches for the edge and tugs it over himself as well.
We end up sharing it, our shoulders almost touching.
The fire crackles softly. The television hums in the background, and I only realise what’s playing when I hear the opening music.
The Vampire Diaries.
A smile tugs at my mouth. He hates this show. Which means he put it on for me. I will myself not to overthink it.
I’m not sure how much time passes before I notice the ice beginning to melt. I start to stand to take it back, but he says, “Leave it. I’ll do it.”
I ignore him, take the pack to the kitchen, and start making hot chocolate instead.
I realise, as I reach for the cocoa, that I’ve no idea how he actually likes it.
If I stop to think about it, I don’t know much about him at all. Every moment we’ve shared has been either a battle or a blaze, nothing in between.
So I make it the way I prefer it, rich, dark, with a hint of cinnamon.
When I return to the living room, I hand him one of the mugs. He glances at it, his brows drawing together as he peers inside.
“I don’t drink hot chocolate, Ophelia.”
The words sting more than I expect, and he knows it. His jaw tightens, irritation flickering in his eyes, tempered by something else.
Something that looks far too much like guilt.
Then, without another word, he lifts the mug and takes two immense gulps.
“Careful, it’s hot—”
He almost sputters, but somehow manages to swallow. I can tell it must have burned, though his expression doesn’t so much as flicker. Completely impassive, he simply says, “It’s good. Thank you.”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing.
He gives me a look but doesn’t say a word.
We drink in silence, the fire crackling softly, until my gaze drifts back to his leg.
“Are you sure you don’t want something for the pain? That must hurt. I could bring more ice—”
Before I can stand, his hand closes around my wrist, pulling me back down. My cup wobbles but doesn’t spill.
“Ophelia,” he says quietly.
The sound of my name in his voice stills me. His eyes meet mine, unreadable, yet something almost… fragile flickers beneath the surface, something I’ve never seen in him before.
“Stop fussing,” he says. “I’m not used to it. It’s... strange. Being cared for.” A humourless curve touches his mouth. “And it pisses me the fuck off.”
“What do you mean?” I ask softly.
He exhales, a low sound that almost passes for a laugh. “Exactly what I said.”
I hesitate. “What about your parents? They must’ve… maybe they—”
His expression hardens, a shadow drifts over his features. “My mother died giving birth to me.”
For a moment, I forget to breathe. He says it so casually, yet the pain beneath it is unmistakable, even as he tries to hide it.
I know there’s a lot more to untangle in that one sentence. But looking at him, I also know he won’t do it with me, now… maybe not ever.
I reach out, brushing my fingers against his cheek. “You know you’re not to blame, right?”
I don’t know why I feel the need to say the words, but I do.
He looks at me as though he’s never heard them before, and if I had to guess, he hasn’t.
He tries to pull away, but I catch his face and turn it back to mine, my fingers trembling slightly.
“Arlo, you were a baby. You didn’t take anyone’s life. You were born out of love, I’m sure of it. Sometimes things happen that aren’t fair, but that doesn’t make them your fault.”
For a heartbeat, the world feels still. His gaze burns through me, raw, unguarded, and my chest aches with it.
Then, like a door slamming shut, it’s gone. His expression empties, the distance returns.
My hand slips from his face.
“I don’t need your pity,” he says coldly. “It’s not some tragic tale, it’s just what happened. People die. Some of us just learn it earlier than others.”
He leans back, jaw tight, the firelight carving harsh lines across his face. The self-hatred is there, buried deep, contained, controlled, and weaponised.
Then laughter, footsteps, and doors slamming break through the silence.
The spell shatters. The others are back.
By the time everyone gathers for Thanksgiving dinner, the house is alive again, music, conversation, the clatter of dishes.
Adelaide is bossing everyone around, Milo’s making jokes, and Octavia is arguing about seasoning.
Arlo, though, is silent and detached.
Each time our eyes meet, he looks away, and it hurts.
So I make myself stop looking.