Snowbound

"You any good with a knife?" he asked, setting a cutting board and a handful of onions on the counter.

Milo leaned against the doorframe, watching him with narrowed eyes. "Why? Planning to use it on me?"

Colby snorted, shaking his head. "Tempting, but no. I was thinking more along the lines of you helping with dinner. Unless you'd rather starve."

"I can chop an onion," Milo said, pushing off from the door and crossing to the sink to wash his hands. The water was icy cold, a shock to his system. "But don't expect any gourmet shit."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Colby said, handing him a knife. "Just try not to lose any fingers. Blood doesn't really pair well with venison."

They worked in silence for a while, the only sounds the rhythmic chop of Milo's knife and the sizzle of onions hitting the hot oil in the skillet. The air filled with the savory scent of cooking, and Milo's stomach rumbled in response.

"You never answered my question, you know," Colby said suddenly, watching the skillet as he stirred the contents with a wooden spoon.

"What question?" Milo asked, scraping the chopped onions into a bowl and reaching for a carrot.

"About why you're so obsessed with me," Colby said, his tone light but his eyes serious when he glanced up. "I mean, I get the whole 'speaking truth to power' thing. But there's a lot of corrupt CEOs out there. Why me specifically?"

Milo paused in his chopping, the knife hovering over the carrot. "Because you're the worst," he said finally, his voice low. "Because you put on this charming act, this 'man of the people' routine, but underneath it all you're just as rotten as the rest of them. Maybe more so."

Colby was silent for a long moment, his face an impassive mask. Then he sighed, setting the spoon down and turning to face Milo fully. "You really believe that, don't you?" he said, his voice quiet. "That I'm some kind of monster."

"Aren't you?" Milo challenged, his grip tightening on the knife handle. "You've ruined lives, Colby. Destroyed families. All in the name of profit."

"I've also created jobs," Colby shot back, his eyes flashing. "Built hospitals. Funded scholarships. I'm not saying I'm a saint, Milo. But I'm not the devil either."

Milo scoffed, shaking his head. "Keep telling yourself that."

Colby's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He took a step closer, his gaze on Milo's face. "You want to know why I think you're so obsessed with me?" he asked, his voice low and rough. "I think it's because you see yourself in me. I think it scares you how alike we are."

Milo's breath caught, his heart hammering against his ribs. "We are nothing alike," he spat, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.

"Aren't we?" Colby took another step closer, his body mere inches from Milo's. The air between them hummed with tension, the firelight creating long shadows on the walls. "Both of us willing to do whatever it takes to get what we want. Both of us so convinced we're right that we can't see anything else."

Milo swallowed, his throat tight. "That's not—"

"You're so sure I'm the villain," Colby murmured, his hand coming up to brush lightly against Milo's cheek. The touch was electric, sending sparks across Milo's skin. "But what if you're wrong? What if there's more to the story than what you've decided to see?"

Milo's thoughts scattered, his mind reeling from the combination of Colby's proximity and his words. He knew he should pull away, should put a stop to this before it went any further. But some part of him, some deep, hidden part, wanted this. Wanted Colby.

"You're wrong," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm nothing like you."

Colby's mouth curved into a smile, his thumb lightly stroking Milo's lower lip. "Keep telling yourself that, Torres," he murmured, his voice rough with promise. "Maybe one day you'll even believe it."

He stepped back then, breaking the spell of the moment. Milo sucked in an unsteady breath, his heart still racing, his thoughts a mess.

They finished making dinner in near silence, the air thick with words and even more desires. They ate at the small kitchen table, the venison stew surprisingly flavorful, the conversation stilted and awkward.

Afterward, they retreated to opposite ends of the sofa, a fire crackling in the hearth. Milo pulled out his laptop, determined to work on his exposé, but found himself staring blankly at the screen, his mind replaying the moment in the kitchen over and over.

Colby, for his part, seemed content to watch the fire, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The quiet stretched between them, not uncomfortable exactly, but charged with something Milo couldn't quite name.

"You ever think about getting out?" Colby asked suddenly, his gaze still on the flames. "Of the city, I mean. Just...starting over somewhere new."

Milo blinked, surprised by the question. "I don't know," he said slowly, setting his laptop aside. "Maybe. Sometimes."

Colby nodded, taking a sip of his drink. "I used to dream about it," he said, his voice quiet. "When I was a kid. Running away somewhere no one knew me. Somewhere I could just...be."

Milo watched him, curiosity getting the better of him despite himself. "Why didn't you?"

Colby shrugged, a sardonic smile at the corner of his mouth. "Duty. Obligation. The family business." He swirled the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking against the sides. "The usual chains."

"Sounds like a cop-out," Milo said, his tone blunt.

Colby chuckled, a low, rough sound. "Maybe," he conceded. "Or maybe it's just the truth. We're all bound by something, Torres. Even you."

Milo frowned, looking away. "I'm not bound by anything."

"Aren't you?" Colby's gaze was knowing when Milo glanced back at him. "Bound by your ideals? Your need to be right? Your obsession with taking me down?"

Milo's jaw tightened, anger flaring hot in his chest. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know more than you think," Colby murmured, setting his glass down on the coffee table. He turned to face Milo fully, his expression serious. "I know that you're lonely. That you're tired of fighting all the time. That some part of you wonders if there's more to life than this endless crusade."

Milo's breath caught, his heart hammering against his ribs. "You don't know shit," he whispered, the words lacking conviction.

"Don't I?" Colby's hand came up, his fingers lightly brushing Milo's jaw. The touch was gentle, almost tender, and it sent a shiver down Milo's spine. "I see you, Milo. I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. The way you react when I touch you."

Milo swallowed, his throat tight. "This is a mistake," he breathed, his voice trembling. "We shouldn't—"

"Maybe," Colby conceded, his thumb stroking over Milo's lower lip. "But maybe it's the best mistake we'll ever make."

He leaned in then, his lips against Milo's in a kiss that was feather-light, questioning. Milo froze, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. He knew he should pull away, should put a stop to this before it went any further. But Colby's lips were warm and soft against his, and some part of him, some deep, hidden part, wanted this. Wanted Colby.

He kissed back, his lips moving against Colby's with a desperation that surprised even him. Colby made a low sound in the back of his throat, his hand sliding into Milo's hair, angling his head to deepen the kiss. Everything faded except the two of them, the slide of lips and tongues, the heat building between them like a physical force.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard, their foreheads pressed together. Milo's thoughts were a jumbled mess, his body humming with want and need and a thousand other things he didn't want to name.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice low. "We shouldn't be doing this."

Colby’s eyes darken as he pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you. “Why?” he murmurs, his thumb still brushing your lower lip with a possessiveness that makes your knees weak. “Because it complicates your precious story?”

“Because you’re my enemy,” you snarl, but your voice cracks on the word, betraying you. You’re still pressed against him, still breathing the same air. “Because you’re everything I hate.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” He steps back, putting space between you. The firelight throws his face into sharp relief, all angles and shadows. “You don’t hate me. You hate what I represent. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” You laugh, a harsh, broken sound. “Tell that to the workers you exploited. The communities you poisoned. The lives you ruined.” You step forward, closing the distance he just created, your finger jabbing at his chest. “You think a few pretty words and a well-timed kiss changes any of that? You think it makes you a good person?”