The cold didn't feel like weather. It felt like a correction.
Andrew’s fingers were numb, stiff claws fumbling with the box of matches. The wind screamed through the valley, a raw, tearing sound that drowned out the frantic thumping of his own heart. He was knee-deep in a drift, the hem of his coat heavy with ice, standing near the edge of the frozen ornamental lake where the original Andrew—the one from the book, the one who was supposed to be here—had drowned three years ago. But the timeline was wrong. The script was broken. And Andrew, the interloper in this body, was trying to burn the only map he had left.
He struck a match. The flame sputtered, a tiny, pathetic tongue of orange against the overwhelming grey, and died instantly. He cursed, the sound snatched away by the gale.
"Come on," he whispered, his teeth chattering so hard it hurt his jaw. "Burn. Just burn."
He held the leather-bound notebook against his chest to shield it. It contained everything he remembered from his previous life—the plot points, the death flags, the secrets of the blackened Saint-Claire family legacy. If anyone found it, they’d lock him in the asylum again. Or worse, they’d realize he wasn’t Andrew Saint-Claire at all, just a desperate soul hijacking a dead boy's tragedy.
Another match. This one flared, smelling of sulfur—a sharp, stinging scent that cut through the metallic tang of the coming snow. He lowered it to the paper. The corner of the page curled, browning.
Then a hand, hot and heavy, clamped around his wrist.
Andrew gasped, jerking back, but the grip was iron. The match fell, hissing out in the snow.
"You have a death wish," a voice growled, low and furious, vibrating through the wind.
Andrew looked up. Through the stinging veil of ice crystals, he saw Stephen. Of course it was Stephen. The narrative loved Stephen. He was the hero, the brooding, capable force of nature who was supposed to redeem the family name. He wasn’t supposed to be here; he was supposed to be at the capital, courting the protagonist. But there he was, standing in a blizzard in nothing but a dress shirt and a hastily thrown-on wool vest, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
"Let go," Andrew said, though it came out as a wheeze.
Stephen didn’t let go. He tightened his grip, pulling Andrew off balance. "Are you insane? It’s twenty below. The groundskeepers said you walked out here without a scarf. I thought they were lying."
"I needed air," Andrew lied. It was a stupid lie. He was terrible at this. In his old life, he’d been an engineering student who spent his weekends playing video games, not a scheming Victorian-esque aristocrat.
"Air?" Stephen looked at the notebook in Andrew’s other hand, then back at his face. His eyes were dark, almost black, and terrifyingly focused. "You’re burning things. Near the lake. Where your brother died."
"I'm not him," Andrew muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"What?"
"I said I'm cold!" Andrew shouted over the wind, pivoting to pure defensiveness. "Are you going to lecture me until I freeze, or are you going to let me go?"
Stephen didn't answer. He just moved. He yanked Andrew forward, stumbling him out of the snowdrift. There was no grace in it, just efficient, brutal force. Stephen wrapped an arm around Andrew’s waist, hauling him physically away from the water’s edge. The contact was shocking—a sudden, searing band of heat against Andrew’s frozen side. It made his knees buckle.
"Walk," Stephen ordered. "Now."
They fought the wind back to the manor. It was a blur of white noise and physical struggle. Andrew’s feet felt like blocks of wood. He kept stumbling, tripping over hidden roots, but Stephen was there every time, a solid wall keeping him upright. It was infuriating. It was terrifying. In the original story, Stephen despised Andrew. Stephen was the one who eventually exposed Andrew’s crimes. Being saved by him felt like walking into a trap.
They crashed through the heavy oak side doors into the library, bringing a gust of snow with them. Stephen slammed the door shut and threw the latch, silencing the wind instantly. The quiet that followed was ringing, absolute, and heavy.
Andrew collapsed onto the Persian rug, his legs finally giving out. He clutched the notebook to his chest, shivering violently. The library was dim, lit only by the dying embers in the massive stone fireplace, but it was warmer than the hell outside.
Stephen stood over him, chest heaving. He looked wet, disheveled, and murderous. He wiped melting snow from his face, staring down at Andrew with an expression that was hard to read. Anger? Yes. But something else, too. Something frantic.
"Give me the book," Stephen said.
"No."
Stephen dropped to his knees. He didn't ask again. He reached out, prying Andrew’s frozen fingers apart. Andrew tried to fight him, kicking out weakly, but he was exhausted and half-frozen. Stephen was relentless. He overpowered Andrew easily, pinning his wrists to the floor with one hand and snatching the notebook with the other.
"Don't read it!" Andrew’s voice cracked. Panic, real and acidic, surged in his throat. "Stephen, please. It’s... it’s private."
Stephen tossed the book onto the nearest armchair, out of reach. "I don't care about your diary, Andrew. I care about why I found you trying to set yourself on fire."
"I wasn't—I was burning the book!"
"You were three feet from the ice!" Stephen roared, the sound echoing off the high bookshelves. The mask of the composed, perfect heir cracked wide open. "Do you have any idea what you look like? You’ve been wandering the halls like a ghost for weeks. You don't eat. You jump when people say your name. And now this?"
He grabbed Andrew’s shoulders, hauling him up into a sitting position. Stephen’s hands were shaking. That was new. Stephen never shook.
"Look at me," Stephen commanded. He leaned in, invading Andrew’s space, forcing eye contact. The proximity was dizzying. Andrew could smell him—wet wool, cedar smoke, and the sharp scent of cold air. "You are freezing."
"I noticed," Andrew snapped, his teeth clacking together. "Hypothermia is subtle like that."
Stephen didn’t laugh. He began unbuttoning Andrew’s coat with frantic, clumsy movements. "We need to get these wet layers off. You’re blue, for god’s sake."
"I can do it myself."
" clearly you can't do anything yourself," Stephen retorted, ripping the heavy, sodden wool coat off Andrew’s shoulders and tossing it aside. He didn't stop there. He went for the vest, then the shirt. His fingers brushed against Andrew’s neck, and the contrast—Stephen’s burning skin against Andrew’s ice-cold flesh—sent a jolt through Andrew’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Stephen, stop," Andrew tried to push him away, but his hands were useless, numb blocks. "This is... inappropriate."
"Inappropriate?" Stephen let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "You almost died. Modesty is not the priority."
He stripped Andrew down to his undershirt, then dragged the heavy fur throw from the sofa and wrapped it around him, bundling him like a child. Stephen then sat back on his heels, breathing hard, watching Andrew shiver.
"Why?" Stephen asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. "Why the lake?"
Andrew pulled the fur tighter, burying his chin in it. He couldn't tell the truth. *Hey, I’m actually a college student named Leo who got hit by a truck and woke up in the body of your villainous cousin.* That would go over well.
"I hate this place," Andrew whispered. It was a half-truth. "I hate the winter here. It feels like it’s trying to kill me."
"It is," Stephen said bluntly. "That’s what winter does. You’re supposed to be smart enough to stay inside."
"I needed to destroy that book."
"Why? What’s in it? Confessions?" Stephen’s eyes darted to the armchair where the book lay.
"Predictions," Andrew said. "Bad ones."
Stephen stared at him for a long moment. The fire popped, a loud crack in the silence. "You’ve changed," Stephen said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. "Since the fever last month. You’re different."
Andrew’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. The plot hole. The moment the character breaks.
"People change after they almost die, Stephen."
"Not like this," Stephen countered. He moved closer, sliding across the rug until his knees bumped Andrew’s. He reached out and took Andrew’s face in his hands. His palms were rough, calloused from riding, but incredibly warm. He held Andrew’s face like it was something fragile that he was terrified of breaking. "The old Andrew was... cruel. Petty. He looked at me like I was something to be stepped on."
Stephen’s thumb brushed over Andrew’s cheekbone. Andrew stopped breathing. This wasn't in the script. In the script, Stephen ignored Andrew until the final betrayal.
"You look at me like you’re scared of me," Stephen murmured, searching Andrew’s eyes. "And you look at this house like you’ve never seen it before. You act like you’re waiting for the ceiling to collapse."
"Maybe I am," Andrew confessed. The emotional exhaustion was catching up to the physical one. He felt tears pricking his eyes—stupid, weak tears. "Maybe I know how this ends."
"How what ends?"
"Us. The family. Me." Andrew squeezed his eyes shut. "I’m not supposed to make it to spring, Stephen. Everyone knows it. I’m the... I’m the mistake in the lineage."
"Stop it."
"It's true. I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. That’s why I went to the lake. I thought... maybe if I faced it, if I burned the proof of how scared I am..."
"Open your eyes," Stephen ordered.
Andrew obeyed. Stephen was close. Too close. The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't even pity. It was a hunger, a desperate need to understand, to fix, to possess.
"You are not a mistake," Stephen said, articulating every syllable. "And you are not going to die. I won't let you."
"You can't stop fate," Andrew whispered. "The story is already written."
"Then I’ll rewrite it," Stephen said. The arrogance of it was breathtaking. "I don't care what you think is coming. You are not allowed to check out. You don't get to leave me alone in this house with the ghosts."
Andrew stared at him. The "Gap Moe" struck him hard—this stoic, terrifying man, admitting he didn't want to be alone. Admitting he needed Andrew.
"You’d miss me?" Andrew tried to joke, but his voice wobbled.
"I would burn this house to the ground to find you in the ashes," Stephen said. He wasn't joking. He looked deadly serious.
The air between them grew thick, charged with static. The firelight danced in Stephen’s eyes. Andrew felt a strange heat rising in his chest, warring with the lingering chill in his bones. He realized, with a sudden, vertiginous drop in his stomach, that Stephen wasn't looking at him like a cousin or a rival. He was looking at him like a starvation victim looks at bread.
"Stephen," Andrew breathed.
Stephen leaned in, his forehead resting against Andrew’s. He closed his eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath. "You scared the hell out of me, Andrew. When I saw you by the water... I thought..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. His hands slid down from Andrew’s face to his neck, his thumbs pressing against the pulse point, checking, verifying life. The touch was possessive, grounding. It anchored Andrew to the floor, to the room, to the present moment.
Andrew realized his hands were clutching Stephen’s shirt, twisting the fabric. He hadn't even noticed moving them. He needed the heat. He needed the solidity of the other man.
"I’m here," Andrew said, and for the first time since waking up in this world, he actually felt it. He wasn't just a reader observing a tragedy. He was here, on the rug, with a man who looked at him like he was the center of the universe.
"Keep it that way," Stephen murmured. He pulled back just enough to look at Andrew’s lips, then back up to his eyes. The question hung in the air, unasked but deafening. *Can I?*
Andrew didn't pull away. He couldn't. The magnetic pull was too strong, the gravity of Stephen’s presence too immense. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Stephen didn't hesitate. He closed the distance, pressing his lips to Andrew’s. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was desperate, tasting of fear and relief and the iron tang of the cold. It was the kiss of a man who had almost lost something precious and was trying to fuse it to himself so it could never be lost again.
Andrew gasped into the kiss, his senses overloading. Stephen’s mouth was hot, demanding. His hands were everywhere—on Andrew’s waist, in his hair, gripping him tight. The ornate script of the original story, the tragedy, the inevitable death—it all blurred into background noise. The only thing that was real was the friction, the heat, the scratch of Stephen’s vest against his palms, the sound of Stephen’s breathing hitching in his throat.
When they finally broke apart, gasping, the room felt smaller. Intimate. Dangerous in a completely different way.
Stephen rested his forehead against Andrew’s again, his eyes squeezed shut. "No more lakes," he rasped. "No more burning things. You stay with me. You tell me everything."
Andrew looked over Stephen’s shoulder at the leather notebook on the armchair. It was still there, full of secrets that could destroy them both. But Stephen was here, warm and solid and terrifyingly alive.
"Okay," Andrew whispered, a lie and a promise all at once. "Okay."