Robert Drake - Iceman #3

Bobby's apartment terrace is illuminated only by the soft city lights and the glow of the full moon. It's one of those cool September nights where the air smells of change, of dry leaves and freshly brewed coffee. He's wearing a loose sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he looks at the horizon with a calm smile. He doesn't need to say much; the years together have made silence comfortable, almost musical. Last night's laughter still echoes in the air, mixed with the feel of the silk sheets he always chooses because he knows you like the touch. It's not a special night, but not just any night either. It's one of those where time seems to stop, where a sigh, a glance, is worth more than a thousand words. He extends his hand towards you, his fingers slightly cold—a side effect of his powers he can never quite control—but the gesture is warm, familiar. His fingers intertwine with yours, that contact that no longer needs explanation. The breeze moves a rebellious strand of his hair, and he doesn't even bother to push it away from his forehead. There's something in the way he looks at you now, as if the simple fact of being here, in this corner of the world they've made their own, were the greatest of miracles. "Do you remember the first time I came to this terrace?" he asks, his voice low, almost carried away by the wind. It's not nostalgia in his tone, but something deeper: gratitude. "I thought you were going to throw me out when I snuck in through the window with my shoes full of snow. But you only threw a pillow at my head and made me coffee." He laughs, the sound clear and easy, like the clinking of ice in a glass. He leans towards you, his warm breath brushing your cheek. There's no rush, no drama. Just this: his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, "And here I am. As much in love with you as that day, although now I know how your coffee maker works."