Chapter 4 Miguel #2
He’s been through enough. I know what it looks like when someone flinches at shadows they shouldn’t have to remember. I know the way he pretends he’s fine just to keep me from worrying.
But I see through it.
I’d do anything for him.
Anything.
Shit.
Love.
I love him.
Fuck it. It’s true. Since we were teenagers, I never looked at him like he was just my stepbrother. Then that night I kissed him when he was getting ready to leave for college. It changed everything.
The way he laughs, the way he says my name like it means something.
Love.
I slide my arms under him and lift, careful not to wake him. He murmurs something in his sleep, my name, maybe, and burrows into my chest. My heart trips over itself.
Sleep, mi amor, I’ve got you.
Upstairs, I lay him down on the clean sheets and pull the blanket up over his shoulders. Crawling in next to him, he curls toward me even half-asleep, instinctive, like he knows I’m his safe space. Because I am.
“Te amo, pretty boy,” I whisper against his hair, so quiet that he won’t remember it in the morning.
The light wakes me first, pale and filtered through the snow-dusted windows. For a minute, I just lie there, listening to the slow, steady sound of his breathing beside me. Caleb’s still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, hair a mess, the blanket pulled up to his chin.
He looks younger like this. Softer. The worry lines between his brows are gone, his mouth relaxed.
There’s a faint smudge of bruises along his throat where my mouth had been last night.
I trace it lightly with my fingertip, just enough to make my chest twist with something that feels too big to name.
I could stay here all morning.
But the cabin’s cold, and if I don’t get the fire going, he’ll wake up shivering.
So I slide out of bed carefully, tucking the blanket tighter around him, and pad downstairs.
The living room’s dim except for the faint gray light pushing through the big window.
Inside the hearth there’s nothing but ash.
I crouch, stack the logs, and strike a match.
The fire catches quickly, crackling to life, filling the space with that familiar dry-wood scent.
It feels…good. Domestic, almost.
I could see us coming up here every year, maybe not at Christmas time, but during winter for sure.
Just to be together for a little while.
Looking over at the tree that’s already been set up, something about it makes me think of home, of mornings in our kitchen with my mom humming and the smell of cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven.
She used to make them every Christmas Eve for Caleb and me when we were kids.
Said it was her way of sweetening the day before Santa came.
Guess I picked up the tradition without meaning to.
Last night when he said he was going to miss her cinnamon rolls, I almost told him that he wouldn’t, but I figured the surprise of waking up to them would be better.
Heading into the small kitchen, I pull the tray of dough from the fridge, the rolls already cut and proofed from before the trip.
I line them up in the baking dish, brush them with butter, and sprinkle extra cinnamon and brown sugar just because Caleb’s got the world’s worst sweet tooth.
The oven hums to life.
While they bake, I make coffee. Two mugs, one with way too much cream and sugar, because that’s how he likes it. Then I grab a book off the shelf by the window. Some old paperback of a romance novel a previous renter must have left behind. I flip the cover and inside reads,
Layne Larimore, December 2024
and beneath it,
If your significant other reads you the bit about food play, don’t think… just do it. You can thank me later.
–Wes
Okay…
I don’t even check the title before I sit down near the fire, legs stretched out, letting the warmth soak in.
It’s quiet. Peaceful.
This is the first time in weeks that my head isn’t spinning with worry or guilt or the constant ache of wanting more time with Caleb. Just…this. Snow still falling, fire crackling, cinnamon in the air.
The oven timer dings just as I hear the creak of the loft stairs.
“Smells so good,” comes his voice from the loft, still raspy from sleep.
I look up just in time to see him nearly trip over the last step, half stumbling down the stairs, hair a mess, wearing one of my hoodies, or should I say my hoodie that he lets me wear so he can steal it.
“Careful, baby,” I laugh, setting the book aside. “You’re gonna break your neck before breakfast.”
“Worth it if it means I get to those rolls faster,” he says, grinning, eyes lighting up when he spots the baking dish cooling on the counter. “Are those...”
“Mom’s cinnamon rolls.”
“Did you?”
“Make them before the trip so you could have them on Christmas Eve? Yeah, I did.”
He crosses the kitchen in three steps, pressing a kiss to my cheek before reaching for a fork. I swat his hand away.
“Too hot. You’ll burn your mouth.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Brat,” I mutter, trying not to smile as I plate two rolls and slide them toward him.
He sits at the counter, steam rising between us, that happy little hum he does when something tastes good filling the quiet. It makes me feel warm in a way the fire can’t touch.
I would do things… illegal things to see him happy like this all the time.
I take a sip of coffee, watching him devour half the roll in one bite. “Eat up, pretty boy. You’ll need the energy.”
He pauses, cheeks full, suspicious. “For what?”
I nod toward the window. The world outside’s a blur of white, fat flakes still coming down, the trees weighed heavy with snow. “Thought we’d have a little fun out there today.”
He swallows, brows lifting. “Fun like… building a snowman?”
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “No, baby. More like a game of cat and mouse.”
He blinks, uncertainty flickering behind his smile. “You mean, like, chasing?”
“Something like that.” I lean forward, drop my voice low, just enough to make him shiver. “You game, pretty boy?”
His lips part, breath catching, and there it is, that spark I love lighting in his eyes.
“Did you bring the mask?”