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by Yolande Kleinn
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Even without the looming threat of a blizzard, Christmas Eve is a crummy shift to be stuck making coffee.
At least the worsening weather has kept business quiet, leaving Cole Moreau and his two fellow baristas in relative peace. Every time Cole glances at the window, the sky looks darker, the snow heavier, the horizon more grim. By two in the afternoon, the snow that's been falling from the sky all day has turned unmistakably to sleet, and the clouds have gone a sickly green.
Through the window, downtown Minneapolis is barely recognizable beneath the snow and ice. It feels like being caught in limbo somewhere between dusk and midnight.
Worst of all, Cole hasn't caught so much as a glimpse of Isaac Hamlin this entire shift.
Not that he had any reasonable expectation of Isaac showing up. Unlike this tiny hole-in-the-wall coffee shop where Cole works—which would be closing early even without the nasty weather—the bookshop next door has extended hours leading up to Christmas. Isaac is definitely over there; the man is too soft-hearted to make any of his employees work on Christmas Eve. But that also means no chance to get away for the almost ritualistic caramel mocha he usually stops by to order halfway through Cole's shift.
When Isaac didn't appear at his habitual time, Cole seriously considered making him the usual and stopping over to deliver it personally—but he wasn't quite brazen enough to go through with it.
It's one thing to have a hopeless crush on the silver fox next door; it's another thing entirely to insert himself into Isaac's routine uninvited.
Still. They're friends, aren't they? Cole's been working this same job since undergrad, and he's well into his master's program now. He occasionally shopped at Catty-Corner Books even before he started working as a barista, but he's been a regular and devoted patron in the six years since. He was always destined to make a pest of himself, given his voracious literary appetite, but the gorgeous proprietor is a powerful extra motivation to stop in almost daily.
Isaac Hamlin is exactly the rugged, broad-shouldered, smile-warm sort of man to make Cole weak at the knees. Not that Cole considers himself to have a type, exactly. But there is something about the compelling intersection of attributes—attractive older man plus soft-spoken bookstore owner plus a wickedly wry sense of humor—that makes Isaac seem tailor-made to torture Cole, simply by being perfect and unattainable.
He doesn't know Isaac's exact age. In fact, for all that the past six years have formed a strange and impossible-to-quantify closeness between them, Cole knows very little about Isaac's life. A hundred other things—favorite authors, years in the book business, niche eras of history for which Isaac goes positively feral—have always been fair game, but Cole's never had the guts to push for more personal information.
And he's sure as hell never asked how Isaac might feel about dating a coffee-brewing grad student with an inconvenient crush.
He almost worked up the nerve once—the day after his college graduation, the day he stopped into Isaac's shop with no pretext at all, right at closing time, because he wanted to share the good news. Isaac hugged him that day. And then stepped back with a look in his eye that Cole didn't have the first clue how to read. He remembers the way his pulse took off, every greedy instinct wanting that expression to signal interest. He remembers Isaac's gruff voice murmuring, Follow me, and his own mind spinning through so many possibilities as he trailed Isaac into the backroom.
Adrenaline had him right on the verge of asking if he could buy Isaac dinner, when he spotted the framed picture sitting at the corner of the desk.
The photo offered up a glimpse of Isaac and a lovely brunette woman, standing to either side of a girl who couldn't be older than twelve. The staging had the look of a dignified family portrait, but with everyone laughing and looking away from the camera—captured in a moment of mirth so overwhelming it seemed to resonate right out of the cheap frame—there was a lifetime of chaotic warmth caught up in the image.
Cole also remembers the unpleasant twist in his stomach as he realized what that photo meant. His hesitation in the open door and his sudden understanding that he would never admit his feelings. Bad enough he'd been flirting with Isaac so long. Only a complete asshole would make a more blatant move on a man who—regardless of the lack of ring on his finger—clearly already had a family.
Isaac gave him a book after that, some new title that had just come in, a gift to celebrate Cole's graduation. But Cole doesn't even remember now what the book was. He's done his imperfect best not to think about that day since.
Unfortunately, Cole's insistent heart refuses to let him off the hook, even after years of being painfully aware Isaac Hamlin is out of bounds. And caught in the midst of a worsening blizzard, Cole is still disappointed at his absence. Isaac's face would've been a pleasant bright spot in an increasingly dreary day.
"Fuck this," Cole finally announces just before three o'clock. It's only him and his most junior trainee left manning the counter and they haven't seen a single customer in the past hour. "We're closing before public transit shuts down and traps you here."
The snow and sleet have intensified into a wall so thick Cole can't see across the normally busy road, but that hardly seems to matter when there's not a single car in sight. The fuzzy glow of streetlights barely penetrates the gloom.
"What about you?" she blinks at him from behind enormous glasses.
"My sister's picking me up at the end of my shift." He would have been locking everything down in a couple hours no matter what, but the weather is plenty of reason to move up the timetable. His sister is just across the river. If he calls soon, maybe she can collect him early, and hopefully they'll be able to get on the road out of town before the storm gets any worse.
Decision made, Cole crosses between tables, locking the door and turning off the garish OPEN sign.
"You can head out," he says. "I'll do any cleanup that can't wait until after the holiday."
"You sure you'll be alright?"
The grin Cole gives her is equal parts stubbornness and bravado, but his answer is honest. "I'll be fine. Text me when you get home safe, okay?"
*
Isaac Hamlin lasts until four o'clock before finally conceding that the storm has scared off even his most desperate customers.
Much as he hates losing the rush of last-minute holiday shoppers, he isn't disappointed about calling it an early night. The relentless weather has left him tired down to his bones. And even though his commute home is just the stairs at the back of the store, Isaac feels profound relief at locking the front door and flipping the hanging sign over to CLOSED. It feels a bit like blocking out the blizzard, despite the enormous windows running the entire front of his cozy little shop.
Jones pesters him as he muddles his distracted way through closing tasks. She's meowing so loudly he hears her coming long before she appears through the cat-sized hole he cut into the ceiling last year. She darts along the tops of the tall bookcases that line the perimeter of the sales floor, then hops deftly down to join him, following him around as he tidies up misplaced titles and empties the till.
"There's no way you're out of food," Isaac retorts to an especially shrill yowl. "You won't starve just because you can see the bottom of the dish."
The determined bundle of black fur retaliates by threading between his legs, nearly tripping him with the open money drawer in his arms.
"Fucking menace," he huffs, changing course just in time to avoid stepping on the sweep of an irate tail.
He reaches the backroom without further incident, bumping the door open wider with his hip and setting the cash drawer down on an open corner of his cluttered desk.
Before he can sit, the power cuts out, bathing the windowless room in sudden startling darkness. Jones makes a plaintive noise and disappears, her departure marked by a barely audible swish of fur and the sudden silence of her absence. By the time Isaac fumbles his phone out of his pocket and activates the flashlight, there's no sign of her.
Isaac uses his phone to collect an actual flashlight from a drawer of his desk. Luckily it has fresh batteries—his phone's running on a low charge this late in the day, and apparently he won't be plugging it in tonight.
Peering back out across the sales floor confirms there's no point heading into the basement for the circuit breaker. Through the icy windows he can see that the entire block has gone dark. No streetlights, no stoplights, no shop fronts.
Well. Fuck. At least he's not driving anywhere tonight. He may need to adjust his expectations for tomorrow.
It's downright eerie to see the store this dark. Usually even after he turns everything off for the night, so much light pollution pours in that he can very nearly read the book spines closest to the front windows. Tonight's deepening shadows are something wholly different, and Isaac finds himself doing a sweep of the entire shop by flashlight, thoroughly unsettled.
Of course he finds nothing wrong. Why would he? A power outage can't hurt shelves full of books.
His second adrenaline rush of the night comes just as he's turning his steps back toward the office. A frantic pounding batters the shop's front door, jolting him in place. Isaac hurries toward the sound, unlocking the door when he realizes he can't actually see anything through the distortion of ice coating the glass. He struggles against the door, cracking through the ice and forcing it open with a shove of his shoulder, then blinks in surprise when he finds Cole Moreau standing forlornly on the sidewalk in front of his store.
Cole is not wearing warm enough clothes for the ugly weather, and he looks bedraggled and soaked through. A heavy backpack weighs down one shoulder. He holds his phone like a flashlight in one hand, and his eyes are wide and pleading above a snow-crusted scarf. Isaac spares a fragment of a moment to be exasperated with himself, at how easily he recognizes Cole when all he can see are the man's eyes and silhouette.
"I'm sorry," Cole blurts before Isaac can drag him inside. "I tried to call the store line, but I couldn't get through, and then I saw your flashlight. There's no one else on the whole street, and I didn't know what to do."
"Come in, for fuck's sake." Isaac steps aside, mentally filing away the information that the landline must've been knocked out by whatever took down the power. When Cole keeps standing there looking helpless, Isaac grabs him by the arm and tugs him over the threshold. "You don't need to apologize. Are you okay?"
"Yeah." Cole watches Isaac drag the door shut against heavy wind. "Just... a little wet. And cold. And stranded. Do you think the power will come back soon?" He asks this in a voice of such tenuous hope that Isaac's heart twinges at disappointing him.
"Not likely." He locks the door, both because it needs doing, and because it gives him a pretext to avoid Cole's crestfallen expression. "Whoever's department that is, you can bet your ass they're short-staffed for the holiday."
"Same as you and me," Cole grumbles, and Isaac huffs a laugh.
"Come on." Isaac finishes fussing with the deadbolt and gestures with his flashlight. "I have to finish locking up, but then we can go upstairs. I'll make tea."
"Tea?" Cole falls obediently into step behind him. "How are you going to make tea with no power?"
"Gas range." Isaac tosses a grin over his shoulder, even though he can't be sure Cole will see it in the dark. "You think this old building has modern appliances?"
He's gratified when his comment earns an answering laugh—then just about has a heart attack when Cole gives a startled cry and crashes to the floor. Isaac reroutes immediately, pivoting on his heel and searching for Cole with the beam of the flashlight.
Cole squints up into the bright glow, but at a glance he doesn't look injured. He's landed on his back, sprawled between the shorter shelving units that make up the center of the shop. His lanky legs stretch along blue carpet worn gray beneath years of foot traffic, and he raises his head just far enough to peer at Isaac's cat.
"God damn it, Jones," Isaac huffs. His cat, apparently unsatisfied with her murder attempt, has hopped directly onto Cole's chest and is kneading his wet jacket as though she has every intention of staying there all night. She's purring up a storm, but her claws can't possibly feel good.
Cole's scarf has fallen far enough to reveal his face, which means Isaac can see him wince. But Cole also makes no move to dislodge Jones from his chest.
"You okay?" Isaac squats beside Cole and does a more thorough sweep of the flashlight. Relief pours through him as he reassures himself that Cole isn't bleeding or bent askew in any of the wrong places. Fucking hell, he should've warned Cole to mind his feet.
Never mind that Jones was probably upstairs a moment ago. There's no way she ever would've stayed away after hearing Cole's voice, power outage be damned. Jones has always played favorites among Isaac's patrons. She makes no secret of the fact that she loves Cole more than all the rest combined—probably because he's the only one willing to curl up in a corner and let her melt into a puddle on his lap.
"I'm not hurt," Cole says.
"Sorry. Believe it or not, attempted murder is one of her main methods of expressing affection." Isaac cringes. "I do have liability insurance, for the record. If she gave you a concussion."
"I didn't hit my head." Cole blinks helplessly when Jones stretches forward to bump his chin with her face.
"Good." Isaac stands back up and holds out his hand. When Cole doesn't accept the offer of help, he asks, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Cole answers instantly. "I just... Should we... It feels cruel to move her."
Stillness holds them for a single heartbeat. Then Isaac laughs, the sound bursting from his chest so big and booming that it sends Jones scrambling into the shadows. Cole's grunt of pain suggests there may have been claws involved in the cat's launch, but Isaac only manages to feel a little bad about it. Honestly, there's being sweet, and then there's whatever the hell this is.
Isaac forces himself to quiet, but he's still shaking with silent laughter when Cole finally takes his hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet.
*
Cole's whole chest goes tight as he regains his balance. He spies laugh lines crinkling the corners of Isaac's eyes, a gorgeous imprint of delighted humor written across Isaac's face in the glow of the flashlight. Isaac's hand is strong and warm, still steadying him, and heat rushes through Cole. He's glad for the deep shadows that help conceal the blush burning across his skin. Ridiculous enough, to get so worked up over how close he's suddenly standing to Isaac. It would be even worse if the man actually noticed.
God, Isaac is being so nice to him—rescuing him from the storm like some kind of knight in shining armor—and Cole feels like an asshole, answering that kindness by being a smitten disaster.
Cole doesn't want to be an asshole. He's not proud of how long he's been carrying this troublesome torch. Hell, he'd move on in a second, if he could just figure out how.
At least the inrush of feelings distracts him from the fear that the hard landing might have damaged his laptop.
"You sure you're okay?" Isaac finally lets go of his hand and takes a step back.
"Yes. I promise. I'm not hurt." Truthful words, though Cole does his best to conceal a flinch when he scoops up his bag from where it landed. He doesn't know what he'll do if the computer took damage on impact. Hell, he's not sure when he last backed up his files.
He'll have to find some way to check without alerting Isaac. Much as Cole is painfully aware he'll need to ask his parents for help if it's broken, he'd rather do that than accept Isaac's inevitable attempts to replace any damaged property.
Cat or not, it isn't Isaac's fault Cole tripped in the dark. Isaac is only trying to help. And after six years stubbornly insinuating himself in the man's routine, Cole knows Isaac will blame himself anyway.
When they reach the backroom, Isaac collects a second flashlight and hands it over.
"For self-defense," Isaac deadpans.
Cole nearly chokes on a startled laugh, but he accepts the flashlight, tucking his phone away to save what's left of the battery. Isaac has already turned to the safe behind the desk when Cole clicks on the light, so he steadies the beam to try and make the job easier, waiting quietly for Isaac to finish securing the tray of cash.
Once the safe is locked tight, Isaac straightens up and rolls his shoulders. "Come on. This way." He leads Cole to a door in the corner and a narrow flight of stairs beyond.
Even though the shop is stocked primarily with new titles, both the backroom and staircase carry the sweet, musty smell of old books. A softer emotion unlocks in Cole's chest at the familiar scent. He was a bibliophile long before he met Isaac Hamlin, and a grin spreads across his face at the vivid sense memories that smell stirs up.
He minds his feet more carefully following Isaac up the stairs, because a feline mishap here might actually break his neck. All the while he pretends not to notice his pulse picking up speed, his extremities warming despite the sodden chill of his clothes. Cole's never been in this part of the building before, and his curiosity runs strong. He's known for years, albeit in the most abstract and perplexed terms, that Isaac maintains an apartment above the shop. But any details beyond that—whether he actually stays there, how big the unit is, what kind of furniture fills the space—has always been the stuff of theory and imagination. Exactly the kind of questions Cole does not dare ask, for fear of showing his hand and making things awkward.
He doesn't want to admit how often he's indulged guilty fantasies of Isaac inviting him upstairs. God, how many times has he run from the premises the instant his transaction is complete, overwhelmed with wanting impossible things and terrified Isaac might read the infatuation written across his face?
Cole's never been good at poker.
Now he's finally being led to the inner sanctum. Never mind that this should be no big deal. Isaac Hamlin is just as off-limits tonight as he has been every single day of their acquaintance. But Cole is thrumming with nervous anticipation anyway. He's been greedy for Isaac since the first day he walked into Catty-Corner Books and saw the man twinkling his way through storytime, surrounded by a cacophonous circle of children.
The problem has only intensified in the years since, and Cole reminds himself to calm the fuck down as he follows Isaac upstairs.
The apartment they emerge into is as pitch dark as the stairwell, all impenetrable mystery beyond the beams of their flashlights.
"I'll go start the water boiling while you unbundle," Isaac says. "Do you want an extra sweatshirt or something? It's going to get pretty chilly if the power doesn't come back on."
"I... yeah. Thanks. That would be great." Cole's brain skids out and has to reroute at the thought of wearing Isaac Hamlin's clothes, but it's a practical offer. Cole's compact frame is terrible at retaining heat even on a good day, and all his outer layers are soaked through. Even his jeans, the entire expanse of denim exposed between the hem of his coat and the top of his boots, are sodden from the storm.
As soon as Isaac vanishes deeper into the apartment, Cole surrenders to the gnaw of curiosity, swinging the beam of his flashlight in a slow pan around the room. For all his idle imagining, he's got no specific expectations—but he still finds himself shocked by how homey and inviting everything is. This is no sparse and convenient stopover serving double duty as storage, but an actual proper living room.
Cole has always assumed this is a place Isaac stays for convenience only when his work schedule demands—that the man goes back to an actual house and his family the rest of the time—but this is a home.
It's a cozy, cluttered, intimate layout. The walls stand hemmed in by more bookshelves than have any right to fit in a single room, with framed photos decorating the walls in between. A couple of rugs cover the hardwood floors, deep blue to match a big blocky couch. And in one corner beside a tall window, Cole spots a complicated cat tree, arrayed with cubbies and bridges and little fabric perches.
The entire room is lovely, and this honestly isn't fair.
Belatedly, Cole leaves off his voyeuristic perusal and unwraps himself from his soaked winter gear. He hangs all of it on a free-standing coat rack near the door, then tucks himself onto the floor in front of the couch and pulls out his laptop.
It turns on without a hitch, and Cole breathes a grateful sigh. Thank fuck. The computer must've been cushioned by the extra clothes he packed for a weekend away. It continues to work just fine as he opens a couple of his more urgent school files, just to make sure.
An edge of panic he hadn't consciously acknowledged eases off with this reassurance. Being stranded downtown sucks, especially when he should be on his way to his family Christmas, but he can handle this. He's safe. He's in good company. And even under these shitty circumstances, Cole is selfishly delighted to have Isaac Hamlin to himself.
He startles when his phone pings, and he realizes he's overdue to update the family group chat.
Power's out, he types belatedly, his thumbs clumsy with lingering chill. But I'm somewhere safe. Phone will probably die soon, sorry. Merry Christmas, love you guys!
He waits an extra minute after hitting send, just in case anyone sends an urgent reply—then turns off his phone to save what little battery power is left. Optimism hopes he'll get to plug in before the end of the night; realism acknowledges that he'd better brace for the worst.
Cole can hear Isaac puttering elsewhere in the apartment, then more decisive footsteps approaching through the shadows. Isaac reappears holding a steaming mug in each hand and a sweatshirt draped over his arm. He grips his flashlight precariously alongside one of the mugs of tea.
Isaac pauses a few feet away, watching Cole in the combination of their flashlight beams and the glow from the computer screen. He looks downright exasperated, and Cole can't figure out why.
"You can sit on the couch, you know," Isaac says, wry and gruff.
Cole blinks as he processes this, then offers up a sheepish grin. "My pants are soaked. I don't want to make a mess." He's already shivering, and he wonders if he should sneak off to change into dry pants. He can't tell if the apartment is already getting colder without the furnace running, or if it's just him and his usual inability to cope with winter.
Isaac rolls his eyes, but even in the unreliable light Cole can tell there's fond amusement in the gesture. Then he holds out the arm with the sweatshirt, and Cole scrambles to pull the squashy garment over his head before accepting the hot mug. The sweatshirt sits enormous on his shoulders, but the sleeves are the perfect length. Cole can't remember the last time he felt this cozy, and he shivers at the distracting awareness that this is Isaac's shirt.
"It's herbal," Isaac says, gesturing with his own tea before setting the mug down on the end table beside the couch. "I can't sleep if I have caffeine this late. But there's plenty of other options if you want something else."
"Thanks. This is perfect." Cole puts his computer away and takes a sip of the tea, closing his eyes as the heat spreads through him with a hint of citrus. When he opens them again, Isaac is vanishing into the shadows at the edge of the room instead of settling beside him. It's too dark for Cole to tell what the hell he's doing just from what little the narrow flashlight beam illuminates, but there's the creak of a door and then a great deal of extra noise as Isaac digs through what must be a very large closet.
Before Cole can ask what the hell he's looking for, Isaac asks, "How'd you end up stranded in this mess on Christmas Eve, anyway?" The question comes out muffled from within the closet, heavy with concern.
"My sister was supposed to pick me up from work, so I could hitch a ride to visit our parents. Big family shindig, y'know?" A four-hour drive trapped in the back of a minivan with three small children isn't Cole's idea of a good time, but he was grateful not to buy a bus ticket. "Except not only did it get too dangerous to make the drive out of town, her garage is frozen shut. She couldn't even take me home. And by then none of the buses were running anymore."
"Ouch. Sorry to hear that."
Cole makes a noncommittal noise and tactfully does not explain that, quite frankly, spending this unexpected time in Isaac's company is soothing his disappointment. Then, too curious to wait and see, he asks, "What on earth are you looking for?"
Isaac grunts and lumbers back out of the closet, nudging the door shut with his foot. "Camping gear."
Cole blinks in confusion. He watches Isaac carefully deposit everything on the floor beside the couch. Isaac rummages amid the chaos before emerging with a big metal lantern that Cole half expects will need to be lit with a match. But a moment later, Isaac clicks a button on the side, and light pours out to fill the living room in an aggressive glow.
*
Isaac turns off his flashlight and finally collects his tea. The garish blue light from the lantern should turn everything it touches sickly and pale, but somehow Cole Moreau manages to look as lovely as ever.
His cheeks are flushed a wind-stung and feverish red, and his eyes glow with energy as he takes in the crowded contours of Isaac's home, not bothering to conceal his curiosity. It's the same look he gets when he's found a new research rabbit hole to fall down, the same bright enthusiasm that sometimes makes him lose track of time while bubbling over at Isaac about his newest hyper-fixation.
This glimpse would be charming enough on any normal day, but the sight of it here in his own living room is enough to make Isaac's chest go tight.
"You have even more books than I do," Cole says at last.
Isaac laughs, low and warm. "Hazard of the trade." He settles onto the floor beside Cole—he's not going to sit on the couch while his guest insists on occupying the hard ground—and sips his tea. "It was even worse back when most of my stock was still used books and collectibles. I've never been good at letting go of things I find fascinating."
"Mmm." Cole is still studying Isaac's living room intently, thankfully distracted enough to miss his close scrutiny.
It's rude to stare at his guest, regardless of the fact that Isaac considers Cole the most fascinating thing in this room by an order of magnitude. But Cole looks unreasonably perfect here in Isaac's space, a presence so natural that it seems impossible they haven't done this before.
Isaac almost invited him up for a drink once—a rush of temporary bad judgment the day he learned about Cole's college graduation—as though graduating somehow meant this gorgeous young man was no longer off-limits. He got as far as the backroom before coming to his senses and conjuring a different purpose. Hell, he probably would've gone through with it, and ended up mortifying them both, if not for the way Cole tensed as soon as they both set foot in the more private space behind the shop.
Isaac still feels guilty for making Cole uncomfortable, and he can't entirely believe he almost crossed that line.
"How'd you even fit this many bookshelves?" Cole asks, brow furrowing into an adorable expression. "Did you get some sort of special dispensation to break the laws of physics? Arcane magic? Maybe a deal wi— whu?" Cole jolts in place so hard he nearly spills his tea, as Jones slithers down over his shoulder and drops into his lap. She must have climbed over the couch, but Isaac didn't see her coming. Black cat in a shadow-scattered living room. Isaac should really put a bell on her collar.
Then again, once the surprise fades, Cole seems genuinely pleased, and sets his half-finished tea aside in favor of rubbing behind her ears and beneath her chin. Jones purrs and stretches, eyes blinking slowly shut as she pushes her face aggressively into Cole's hand, a bossy brat trying to direct the path of his fingers.
Cole's answering smile is so sweet that Isaac has to shake himself out of a stupor just to keep drinking his tea. It takes him several seconds to remember what they were talking about, and several more to conjure a coherent reply.
"No perversions of physics," he manages at last. "Just a lot of practice arranging shelves for maximum efficiency."
"Well it's fucking impressive." Cole strokes his hand in a single long path along Jones's back, dislodging a wispy puff of cat hair and dusting it aside. "Next time I move, I should bribe you to help me figure out what the hell I'm doing."
"You don't need to bribe me," Isaac says before he can think better of it. "I'm happy to help."
Maybe it's the wrong thing to say. Cole's gaze snaps from the cat to Isaac in wide-eyed surprise.
"Really? You'd do that?"
Isaac's face burns, because of course Cole wasn't actually serious. But the offer is already hovering between them, so he answers carefully, "If you like."
"That would be amazing," Cole breathes, and his sincerity dissipates Isaac's anxious tension. "Thank you."
They exist quietly together for a while. Conversation isn't quite as easy in this unaccustomed and intimate setting, compared to all the times Cole has lingered in the store downstairs, or invited Isaac to stay and finish his drink even though the coffee shop is already closed. There are no easy pretexts here. No chores to balance or business to attend. There is only the welcome strangeness of shared company, and the murmur of fleeting topics while they drink their tea.
Eventually, Cole stops scritching beneath Jones's chin and glances at Isaac. "What happens if the power doesn't come back on tonight? I don't suppose you've got a fireplace hiding behind one of these bookcases."
"Nope. And it'll get cold. Really cold. I had the shop updated a few years ago, but up here things are drafty as hell. These old buildings just aren't made for private tenants." Which is why, other than Isaac, there aren't any.
The temperature has already dropped significantly—nowhere near dangerous territory yet, but enough to be uncomfortable—enough to make him glad he's wearing a thick sweater. He worries about Cole, even with the purring puddle of cat curled up in his lap.
"Here." Isaac reaches up with a long stretch to tug the blanket down from the back of the couch. It's a soft, threadbare swathe of cerulean blue, and Cole settles it over his shoulders with a shy smile.
"Thanks."
Isaac has intended for years to update his home. He owns this building outright, which means he can do whatever he wants to the apartment. He should, at a minimum, fix things up to a more modern standard, like he did downstairs. Triple pane windows to keep out the cold, better insulation. He probably needs a new roof too. But he keeps putting it off. For the convenience, the cost, the complication to his routine. Something more urgent always comes up, rerouting his attention and funding elsewhere.
Now he's wishing he'd prioritized better, but twenty-twenty hindsight can't fix a drafty apartment.
"We can sleep in the main room downstairs," he says decisively. "It won't get quite as bad, and I've got a thermal sleeping bag. Might be a tight fit for both of us, but it's better than frostbite."
He offers up this explanation as matter-of-factly as he can, without letting himself think too hard about the words coming out of his mouth. It really is the most viable option they've got—he's not just being an opportunistic creep—but he is also going to have his work cut out for him, getting any rest with Cole Moreau right there in the same damn sleeping bag. Yes, it's a double. Yes, sharing body heat is a good idea. But this isn't an ideal arrangement for casual acquaintances.
Or hell, maybe this would be easier if his feelings for Cole were anything at all like casual.
Cole licks his lips—a gesture that drives Isaac alarmingly close to swooning—then answers, "Yeah. Okay. That's a good plan." Then, in a tone that is probably meant to sound bright and cheeky but comes out too earnest, "Thanks for saving me from hypothermia."
"Don't mention it." Isaac stands abruptly, tearing his gaze regretfully away from the sight of Cole cuddling with Jones on the floor. "Did you eat dinner before the power cut out? I could heat some soup before it gets too cold to stay up here."
*
By the time the soup is gone and the apartment has finally passed from uncomfortably chilly to unbearably cold, Cole has no idea how late it's gotten and doesn't especially care. He could turn on his phone and check, but considering there's still no sign of the power returning, it's probably better to save his battery.
It feels like no time at all that he's been sitting on Isaac Hamlin's floor, huddled under a soft blanket, petting a warm cat, talking with a man whose company he covets more than he ever intends to admit. Realistically, it's probably been hours. He feels drained and sleepy, despite the alert attention Isaac inspires just by existing.
"We should probably relocate," Isaac says at last, standing without flourish. "I'll get everything set up."
"I can help carry stuff," Cole says, but before he makes even the most cursory movement toward standing, Isaac waves him off.
"You stay right there," Isaac says, then heads off Cole's inevitable protests. "You want to help? Hold onto that menace of a cat until I've finished hauling everything down the stairs. I want to live."
Cole honestly can't tell if this is a pretext or a sincere request, so he subsides without further protest. Certainly he doesn't mind cuddling an affectionate cat instead of carrying an armload of unwieldy camping gear down a narrow flight of steps lined with books. It's not as though there's really that much to relocate in any case. They're not setting up a tent on the sales floor—just a sleeping bag and some padding, some pillows, some extra blankets just in case.
So he watches Isaac's flashlight beam bob away in the darkness, then return and disappear again. When Isaac returns once more and collects the camping lantern, Cole plucks Jones off his lap and deposits her—still purring louder than a motorcycle in a thunderstorm—on the floor so he can stand.
"You okay with me changing into pajamas?" Cole asks. His jeans no longer feel wet, but there's a clammy stiffness to them that he is starting to hate and definitely won't be able to sleep in.
"Go for it. If you've still got that flashlight, I'll meet you downstairs."
Isaac makes no move to change, but then, his clothes were dry to begin with, gray trousers and a distractingly soft green sweater. Cole finds and ducks into the bathroom, changing quickly—fucking hell it's cold—and then tugs Isaac's sweatshirt back on. He catches a flashlight-quick glimpse of himself in the mirror, and has the absurd thought that he's perfectly dressed for a slumber party. Red flannel pajama bottoms, thick stockings on his feet, while simultaneously he's still drowning in a borrowed sweatshirt three sizes too big.
He takes his backpack downstairs with him. Not likely he'll wake in the middle of the night with the desperate urge to work on his ongoing research project, and he certainly won't be able to access the internet while the power's down. But hey, anything is possible, and he's had the bookshop's private wi-fi password for years. It's not weird. He and Isaac are friends. Friends share internet passwords. And tea. And apparently sleeping bags, though Cole's brain is still spinning uselessly around that increasingly imminent reality.
There's no sign of Jones when Cole finally reaches the sales floor.
Isaac must be psychic—or just observant enough to notice Cole glancing questioningly around the array of bookshelves—because he explains, "She's got a couple spots she can hunker down to stay warm. Padded cubbies in the office or the apartment, plus a bed under the desk in the backroom. We probably won't see her again until morning."
So Cole stops searching for a black cat amid impenetrable shadows, and instead turns to study the cozy sleeping setup Isaac has arranged on the floor.
Even here, the chill has reached its icy tendrils through the air, and Cole shivers despite his warm pajamas. It's not just the cold making him feel unsteady. He is about to crawl into a sleeping bag and share body heat with a man who has been the primary source of Cole's distracted fantasies for years. He's exhausted enough that he might manage to sleep, but that doesn't chase away the longing turmoil in his chest. God he's pathetic, pining this hard after someone he can't have—driving himself into a near panic at the thought of trying to sleep with Isaac so close.
But Isaac doesn't look like he's freaking out about this, and the longer Cole stalls, the weirder it's going to get. He's already too cold to keep loitering in the open air.
So Cole makes himself crawl into the readymade cocoon, scooting until he reaches the far edge and tucking his head down onto the waiting pillow.
"You must be missing holiday plans too," Cole blurts, mostly to distract himself. The last thing he needs is to get caught staring like a thirsty asshole as Isaac shrugs out of his sweater, down to the t-shirt beneath, and then eases in beside him. A moment later, Isaac hears him shut the sleeping bag with a long, audible hiss of the zipper.
"Yeah." Isaac sounds wistful as he settles onto his back, flopping his head against his own pillow a couple times in search of a comfortable angle. "But they'll keep for another time."
Cole is lying on his side—staring harder than is strictly polite at Isaac's profile—and his brow furrows at the notion that Isaac's daughter and partner won't be upset that he's not there on Christmas morning. It's perplexing. If Isaac were his partner, Cole would be devastated to spend the holiday apart.
Maybe Isaac's family doesn't feel strongly about Christmas. Maybe they don't even celebrate.
Isaac must notice Cole's perplexed scrutiny, because he tips his head to the side and meets the perusal head-on. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." Cole makes himself squirm onto his back, mimicking Isaac's pose. The pillow squashes cool beneath his head as he stares up at a colorful patchwork ceiling, lit into strange swathes of brightness and shadow by the camping lantern. "I'm just being nosy. Forget it."
He manages not to flinch as Isaac shifts in his peripheral vision, but now Isaac is the one lying on his side, staring at Cole like a mystery to be solved at alarmingly close range.
"Whatever it is, you won't offend me." Isaac's voice is so soft and steady it's impossible to disbelieve him. "You can ask."
Cole keeps his gaze on the ceiling and puts everything he's got into sounding casual. "Shouldn't you be more upset that you won't get to spend Christmas morning with your daughter?" And your wife, he manages not to add, because he still has no proof that Isaac is married, and he doesn't want to assume anything. At least, not out loud. Cole has jumped to plenty of conclusions in the privacy of his own mind.
"I don't have kids," Isaac says, and Cole nearly gets whiplash from turning his head too quickly.
It's a tactical error. The sleeping bag isn't that big, and Isaac's handsome and far too expressive face is right there. This whole moment feels dizzyingly intimate, and Cole must be losing his mind. The words reach his ears, but they don't track with everything Cole knows about Isaac.
A tiny, traitorous voice at the back of Cole's mind insists this isn't the first thing that's failed to line up with Cole's mental picture of Isaac Hamlin. None of which is a reason to go hoping for Christmas miracles.
Isaac is staring at him now, perplexity written across every line of his expression. "Why on earth did you think I have a daughter?"
"The photo," Cole fumbles, trying to keep up. "On your desk."
In the span of a heartbeat, Isaac's expression transforms from drawn confusion to comprehension to wide-open surprise. Not just surprise, Cole realizes. There's an almost pained edge drawing across his features, and a dart of his eyes that suggests a flurry of mental calculations Cole can't even begin to guess at.
Just as quickly as it appeared, the uncomfortable shock dissipates to be replaced with a more careful measure of calm. "My niece and sister," Isaac explains. "I've never been married."
Oh. Fucking hell.
Cole's first ridiculous instinct is to blurt, Marry me then, but he tamps down the outburst and manages to sound only a little strained when he points out, "You don't need to be married to have kids."
Isaac's face breaks into a wry smile. "You're right. But the point stands. I've never done either of those things."
Suddenly there are too many follow-up questions vying for space in Cole's head, and every single one is rude or invasive. He bites his lower lip to keep from giving voice to any of them, and doesn't know what to make of the shadows that seem to move into Isaac's eyes as Cole settles back into his pillow.
Fuck. Cole needs to stop talking now and at least pretend to sleep, or he's going to stick his foot in his mouth even worse.
"Merry Christmas," he manages in a shaky voice. "Sorry I made so many assumptions."
After an awkward moment of silence, Isaac unzips the sleeping bag just long enough to turn off the lantern. "Merry Christmas. And you don't need to apologize."
*
It can't be very far past midnight when Isaac wakes, genuinely shocked to have slept. Considering he usually sleeps alone—and that he was a mess of ill-concealed adrenaline even before Cole started asking personal questions—it's a wonder he nodded off.
The air on his face is icy cold where his skin isn't covered by the warm sleeping bag. He's groggy, and disoriented from dreams, and can't shake the irrational sense that he hurt Cole's feelings somehow. Little as he can imagine how he might have done so, he's not sure how else to interpret the abrupt withdrawal, or the speed with which Cole rolled onto his other side and pretended to fall asleep.
Did Isaac do something wrong? If so, he'd sure as hell like to know what, so he can avoid repeating the mistake.
A nagging and unkind voice in the back of his head suggests that realizing Isaac is single made Cole abruptly recategorize six years of interactions and recognize Isaac's interest as something more complicated than casual friendship. Becoming suddenly aware of Isaac's infatuation just as circumstances force them into close quarters... That could be upsetting. Especially if Cole mistrusts Isaac's motives.
He would like to think Cole knows him better than that; but Cole thought Isaac was a dad, for fuck's sake. Maybe they don't know each other at all.
Isaac's spiraling quagmire of worries is exacerbated by the fact that he can hear Cole breathing steadily beside him—can feel the crowding warmth of body heat along his arm and side. Cole is actually asleep now, not just pretending. He's settled soundly onto his back, unfolding from his far-too-obvious efforts to stay curled as far from Isaac as possible.
Despite admonishing himself to close his eyes and go back to sleep, Isaac rolls onto his side, searching Cole's face in the uneven shadows.
The sky has cleared in the hours Isaac was unconscious, and bright moonlight distorts through thickly frosted windows along the otherwise dark front of the shop. It's not enough to see clearly—not by a long shot—but in the absence of flashlight beams or lantern light, the subtle glow gives him a glimpse of how soft and lovely Cole Moreau looks in sleep.
Isaac's chest goes tight when Cole adjusts position without waking, a tiny rustle of sound escaping into the silent bookshop. He wishes he could wake Cole to ask if they're okay. Even better, he wishes he could go back and reset. Clear the air right from the start about his family, before any opportunity for ridiculous misunderstandings. How many times through the years has he wondered if Cole was flirting with him, only to convince himself he was imagining the subtle fondness of Cole's smiles?
If Cole knew he was single from the start, would those suggestive interactions evaporate completely? Or would the result be a different path entirely, forged on more solid ground?
For fuck's sake, he doesn't even know if Cole is attracted to him. Clearly Isaac can't trust his own perceptions where this captivating young man is concerned.
And now here he is, watching Cole sleep. Charming. Not at all creepy.
Isaac shifts his weight, fully intending to settle back and make a fresh attempt at dozing off, but Cole moves first. Eyes still closed, breath sneaking out in a drowsy hum, Cole rolls toward Isaac with the clumsiness of sleep—squashes himself against Isaac's chest—buries his face beneath Isaac's chin as though desperate to warm his chilled nose and forehead.
Catching and wrapping Cole in his arms is absolutely the wrong instinct, but Isaac has already done it by the time his brain catches up with his actions.
"Cole," he murmurs, though the nudge is probably unnecessary, judging by the growing restlessness of the man in his arms. Cole is waking up, whether from the extra body heat or the movement necessary to burrow into Isaac's embrace.
The change, when Cole slips from groggy confusion to wakeful understanding, is not subtle. In the span of a breath, Cole's whole body goes tense as a bow string. He doesn't pull away, but his frozen stillness isn't exactly reassuring.
Isaac should let go. Right now. Remove himself from the situation before he makes things exponentially worse. But his traitorous arms refuse to accept the stern rebuke from his brain.
A moment later, Cole's impossible tension eases. Isaac has no idea how to interpret this melting away of stiff surprise. Is it resignation? Humor? Fatigue? Comfort? What the hell does it mean?
The easiest way to find out would be to ask. A close contender would be to push Cole away for a glimpse of his expression. But Isaac does neither of those things, even as his heart gives an achy squeeze.
It's Cole who finally breaks the fraught silence to murmur, wry and sheepish, "This is weird, right? I just made this whole thing irredeemably weird. I've got no choice but to go into hiding as soon as we get out of here."
Isaac tries to conjure up some appropriately blithe response, but he can't. Even though Cole is joking, the threat is too awful to consider. Yes, he knows where Cole works—but what good is that information if Cole starts actively avoiding him? Isaac's not enough of a jerk to hunt someone down at work if he isn't welcome. The thought of Cole disappearing from his life is enough to make his stomach twist unpleasantly.
No surprise then, that his voice comes out raspy and raw, instead of light and reassuring. "Don't you dare."
Cole stills against him, but this time the stillness doesn't linger. Another moment and Cole twists in his arms, palms settling warm against Isaac's broad chest and pushing gently. Isaac loosens his grip, but Cole doesn't go far. Not that there's a whole lot of space to retreat within the confines of the sleeping bag, but Cole only eases back enough to meet Isaac's eyes. He doesn't bother removing himself from the loose embrace, apparently content to be held despite the surreal strangeness hovering between them.
Cole's expression, now that Isaac finally sees it, flashes curious and sharp in the moonlight. His eyes dart with tiny movements, searching Isaac's face for something. The curl of his fingertips in Isaac's shirt feels downright suggestive, and Isaac's breath catches and holds in his chest.
"You saying you'd miss me?" Cole asks, an underlying current of intensity thrumming beneath the question.
Isaac belatedly finds his way back to a lighter tone. "I'd close the shop. What's the point of selling books without my favorite customer?" But even these words come out a little too fierce. He's painfully aware that there is a whole separate conversation playing out beneath the superficial exchange, and the contrast makes his head spin.
"You can't close." Cole's mouth quirks with a mischievous smile. "Independent bookstores are the best thing about this city. I'd never forgive myself if you shut down on my account."
Isaac's blood warms, his chest expanding with a glow of something that feels dangerously like anticipation. "Guess you'd better not go into hiding then."
"Guess not." Cole is searching again, peering into Isaac's face with renewed intensity. A more serious edge touches his expression now, a feverish undercurrent peeking through the thin veneer of normalcy.
Isaac catches himself holding his breath, and he makes himself exhale, soft and slow.
He gasps a startled sound when Cole raises a hand to his face, fingers tracing his stubbled cheek in a wordless but unmistakable question. The palm that settles along the curve of his jaw is distractingly warm compared to the frigid air of the bookshop. Or maybe it's not the heat itself that's so distracting. Maybe it's everything else about Cole Moreau in this taut and trembling moment—the understanding of unforeseen potential—the sudden hope that Cole's flirtations have not been idle after all.
Isaac ducks his head, feeling brave as he presses a kiss to the heel of Cole's hand. His heart pounds faster at the shocky inhale and the widening of Cole's eyes, the way Cole catches his lower lip between his teeth for several seconds and simply stares, like he can't quite believe this either.
Then Isaac adjusts his own unassuming grip, pressing one open hand to the small of Cole's back. Cole allows himself to be tugged toward Isaac's chest, leaning into him with eager energy. Their noses bump together, a wordless nuzzle of intent.
Is this okay? Isaac tries to ask, but he can't get the words out. His voice is gone, incinerated by the supernova burning in his chest.
It's hard to imagine words, imprecise and unreliable tools that they are, communicating more effectively in this moment than the gradual, cautious exchange of touch.
When Cole's hand at his jaw curls into a more demanding grip—one that provides enough leverage to reel him in—Isaac surges forward and covers Cole's mouth with a kiss he has spent years imagining. The noise Cole breathes in answer is absolutely decadent. Giddy energy hums along every one of Isaac's nerves as Cole wriggles forward in his arms, as though desperate to get closer and unwilling to accept the constraints of physical reality.
There is something overwhelmingly sweet in Cole's enthusiasm. Isaac tightens his embrace, thrilling at the impossible fact of Cole Moreau in his arms.
It would be easy to get carried away, especially when Cole squirms more deliberately and gives an insistent tug, rolling onto his back and dragging Isaac along to lie half on top of him. Isaac is bulkier, bigger, stronger. Cole would never be able to move him without his active cooperation. But Isaac just grins into the kiss as he allows himself to be directed into this new position. He braces himself on one arm, not wanting to crush the air out of Cole as he takes deep, greedy command of the kiss.
He breaks away with a gasp when Cole's fingers slip beneath his t-shirt to play along his back.
The touch disappears, and Isaac misses it immediately.
"I'm sorry," Cole blurts, and he already sounds endearingly wrecked. "Should I not have done that?"
"You don't need to stop." Isaac nips at Cole's throat, letting himself taste the fluttering pulse point with a teasing kiss. He shifts his weight to cover Cole's body more completely. "Touch me however you like."
"Fucking hell, Isaac," Cole groans, but his hands are already beneath Isaac's shirt again, more brazen this time. And when Isaac claims an even fiercer kiss, Cole welcomes him with a needy sound that sends a shiver all the way to Isaac's toes.
He startles again when Cole's legs part, making room for Isaac's body to slot like instinct into the space between. They freeze in unison this time, breaking from the kiss to stare at each other in mutual shock. There is nothing surprising about finding themselves here, considering their trajectory, and yet Isaac's mind screeches to an aroused and disbelieving halt.
He's hard. Cole is too. And the desire to do something about it crackles like electricity beneath Isaac's overheated skin.
"Can we?" Cole's breathless voice is almost enough to undo Isaac completely.
It's with more difficulty than he ever wants to admit that he makes himself answer, "We shouldn't. If we make a mess, it'll be torture to get cleaned up in the cold, and that's assuming the pipes haven't frozen." He damn well hopes the pipes haven't frozen, but that's a problem for tomorrow.
He is braced for disappointment, but Cole just falls back with an incredulous laugh and says, "Fuck. You're right. And I really, really wish you weren't."
Isaac kisses him again, long and slow, resisting the urge to grind forward and escalate. Only after making himself dizzy with both feeling and the need for air does Isaac draw back and murmur, "It doesn't need to be tonight. We have plenty of time."
"Promise?" Cole's eyes sparkle, and Isaac considers the underlying weight of his words. The implication of them: that this won't be some strange, blizzard-induced aberration, never to be repeated. They will do this again. Whatever this tenuous new connection is, they will look at it together in the light of day and figure out what it means.
Judging by the wild glint of hope reflected in the moonlight, it's possible Cole wants this just as badly as Isaac does.
"I promise," Isaac says. And then, even though the very last thing he wants to do is stop touching Cole, he eases himself back to his own half of the sleeping bag, lying on his side to keep Cole in sight. Cole rolls to follow him, but the way he snugs himself against Isaac's chest feels soft and affectionate and not at all sexual. An arm slips loosely around Isaac's waist, and Cole tucks his head beneath Isaac's jaw.
"An orgasm would've been a nice Christmas present though," Cole teases.
Isaac laughs, chest shaking with startled and resonant mirth. "You're a goddamn menace, you know that?"
"Thank you," Cole says, then yawns so expansively that Isaac can't help yawning too.
Seems impossible to feel so tired with this much adrenaline coursing through him. But then, it's been a long day, and an even longer night, and the hard floor of an icy bookstore doesn't make for a good night's rest.
"Sleep," Isaac says, affection undercutting the authority of the command. "We'll talk tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Cole agrees, and snuggles into his arms.
*
Cole wakes warm and content, and the light glowing through his eyelids insists it must be well and truly morning.
Even as he registers Isaac's arms around him, cynical instinct tries to insist last night must have been a dream. Some things are too good to be true. And this? This is leagues beyond Cole's wildest expectations.
For several minutes he lies perfectly still, tucked securely against Isaac's powerful chest. He savors the steady rise and fall of Isaac's breathing, every soft exhale ruffling Cole's curls. If he did imagine everything that happened between them in the middle of the night, he doesn't want to give up the illusion quite yet.
He would happily linger in this limbo for hours if not for the fact that his arm is squashed at an awkward angle, and he's becoming uncomfortably aware of a wave of pins and needles along his nerves. He reluctantly shifts his weight—just enough to move his arm—and opens his eyes to see if this adjustment has woken his fellow sleeper.
But opening his eyes lets in a rush of other relevant information, and Cole pats Isaac's chest urgently, suddenly alert. "Isaac, wake up. The power's back."
It is morning. Cole was right about that. Some of the light pouring across Cole's face is from the sun, distorted through windows that have iced over so thickly it's impossible to see the street outside. But more importantly, a single row of overhead lights is on above, alongside a brighter glow soaking in from the backroom. And now that Cole is actually listening for it, he can hear the rumble of the furnace and the hum of a fan pushing warm air through the building.
The furnace can't have been running very long. Cole's face is still painfully cold where his skin is exposed to the open air. But the fact that it's on at all is gloriously reassuring. His hopes of joining his family for Christmas remain nonexistent, but at least he should be able to get home.
Of course, his contrary heart gives a twinge of disappointment as soon as he thinks about going home. A heartbeat later, Isaac blinks sleep-hazed eyes at him, and a bright burst of yearning floods Cole's chest.
God, he hopes he didn't hallucinate last night.
Isaac still has an arm draped loosely around Cole's waist, and he makes no move to withdraw it now that he's awake. That's one data point, and Cole clings to it desperately. Then Isaac's face breaks into a delighted smile, wide and soft around the edges, and the last of Cole's doubt melts away in a flood of giddy relief.
"Merry Christmas," Isaac says, gaze cutting down to Cole's mouth.
"Merry Christmas." Cole meets Isaac's smile with a helpless grin of his own. He twists his fingers in the front of Isaac's shirt and tugs. "Get over here."
Isaac responds in the only reasonable way: by obeying the command and crushing forward into Cole's space. The arm around Cole's waist disappears, but he doesn't mind—not when Isaac's fingers are sliding through his hair, Isaac's mouth is intimate heat covering Cole's smile, Isaac's body is pushing him onto his back—
An affronted yowl startles them, shrill but muffled, just as Cole registers a soft bundle of unhappy cat wriggling between his shoulder blades.
"Fuck," Cole gasps at the same moment Isaac jerks away.
As soon as an avenue of escape opens up—Cole scooting forward as far as limited space allows—Jones zooms out of the sleeping bag, vacating the spot where she must have burrowed between Cole's back and the cozy lining. He twists to watch her dart a deft path up the shelves, then through her dedicated hole in the ceiling and into the apartment above.
Cole cringes. "Think she'll forgive me?"
"That cat loves you more than she loves me. She'll be trying to break your neck with affection again by the time we go upstairs."
Cole doesn't especially want to ask the question this raises, considering how much he'd rather stay right here. "How soon do we need to get moving?"
"There's no rush." Isaac's fingers are warm where they touch his face, curling beneath his jaw to nudge Cole's attention back where it belongs. "No one's expecting me today, thanks to the storm. We can take our time, have breakfast. See how bad the roads are."
"Make sure none of your pipes froze?"
"Sure," Isaac says cheerfully. "That's probably a good idea too. If it's safe to drive, I can give you a ride home. Or..."
"Or?" Cole prompts, when Isaac tapers off with a self-conscious look that does not belong anywhere near his handsome, morning-stubbled face.
"Or," Isaac repeats, a twitch of smile brightening the blush on his cheeks, "you could stay until tomorrow. Wait for them to plow and salt all the streets. You packed for a couple days with your family, right?"
Giddy heat ignites in Cole's chest, and he crushes forward without hesitation. He kisses Isaac breathless, trembling at the unlikely fact of finding himself here. With Isaac. And apparently welcome to stay as long as he pleases.
Christmas miracles indeed.
"I'd love to stay," Cole finally manages, gasping the words as Isaac eases back and tugs Cole on top of him.
And then neither of them says anything coherent for a very long while.
––––––––
THE END