Locke’s palm rests against the bare skin beneath the oversized t-shirt I’m wearing. It’s simply there, warm and heavy at the base of my spine, anchoring me against him while a relentless snowstorm blankets the penthouse windows.
Outside, the world is muted into shades of slate and white, wrapping the bedroom in a hushed, almost suspended atmosphere. The room is kept dim, illuminated only by the soft, gray light filtering through the glass, and the thick blankets are tangled loosely around our legs.
On the bedside table, everything is arranged with surgical precision: a tall glass of water, my medication, and a sleeve of crackers that I currently refuse to touch. The small plastic bucket sits on Locke’s side of the bed, positioned exactly where he can reach it without having to shift hi
