Snowbound

Colby’s eyes flash. “I never claimed to be a good person.” His hand comes up, wrapping around your wrist. His grip is firm, almost painful. “But I’m not the monster you’ve painted me as either.”

“Aren’t you?” You’re breathing hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. “How many people have you sacrificed on the altar of your ambition, Colby? How many lives have you destroyed?”

He flinches, just for a second, before his expression hardens. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he snaps, his voice rising to match yours. “An admission. A confession. Something you can splash across your front page and call justice.” He releases your wrist, shoving you away from him. “Well, fuck you, Torres. You want your pound of flesh? Fine. Take it. But don’t pretend this is about anything other than your own self-righteous need to be right.”

You stumble back, catching yourself on the edge of the sofa. “This isn’t about me,” you growl, pushing yourself upright. “This is about you. About the choices you’ve made. About the harm you’ve caused.”

“And what about the harm you’ve caused?” Colby shoots back, his eyes blazing. “Hiding behind your keyboard, playing judge and jury. Ruining reputations and lives with a few keystrokes. Is that so different from what you accuse me of?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you spit, shaking your head. “You really can’t see it, can you? The difference between holding someone accountable and actively causing harm?”

“The only difference I see,” Colby says, his voice dangerously low, “is that you get to play the hero while I’m cast as the villain. But we both know the truth, don’t we, Milo? We both know that if our positions were reversed, you’d make the same choices I have.”

“Never,” you snarl, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. “I would never sell my soul for a corner office and a fat paycheck.”

Colby barks out a laugh. “Is that what you think this is about? Money? Power?” He takes a step toward you, his eyes holding yours. “You don’t know a damn thing about me, Torres. You don’t know what drives me. What I’ve sacrificed. What I—” He cuts himself off, his jaw clenching. “Forget it,” he mutters, turning away. “You’ve already made up your mind.”

“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” you snap, grabbing his arm to stop him. “Finish your thought. What were you going to say?”

He yanks his arm from your grip, his eyes flashing with anger. “Why? So you can twist it into another headline? Another weapon in your little war against me?” He shakes his head. “I’m done playing this game with you, Milo. I’m done being your punching bag.”

“You started this,” you remind him, your voice tight. “You kissed me. You—”

“I know what I did,” he growls, cutting you off. “And I know it was a mistake. A moment of weakness.” His lips twist into a sneer. “One I won’t be repeating.”

His words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You stare at him, your chest tight, your thoughts reeling. “A mistake,” you repeat, the word tasting like ash on your tongue. “Is that really what you think?”

“What else would it be?” Colby asks, his voice cold. “We’re enemies, remember? You said so yourself.” He takes a step back, putting more distance between you. “This was always going to end badly. We were always going to end up here.”

“You don’t mean that,” you say, your voice low. “I know you don’t.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Colby says flatly, turning away again. “And you never will.”

He starts toward the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. You watch him go, your heart hammering against your ribs, your mind racing. You can’t let him walk away, not like this. Not with so much left unsaid.

“Colby, wait,” you call out, your voice breaking. He pauses, one foot on the bottom step, but doesn’t turn around. “You’re right,” you say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I don’t know you. Not really. But I want to. I—” You take an unsteady breath, forcing yourself to say the words you’ve been holding back. “I care about you. More than I should. More than I ever thought possible.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, slowly, he turns to face you, his face shadowed in the dim light. “What did you say?” he asks, his voice very quiet.

You swallow hard, your throat tight. “I care about you,” you repeat, the words stronger this time. “I don’t want to, but I do. And I think—” You pause, gathering your courage. “I think you care about me too. Or you wouldn’t be so afraid to admit it.”

Colby stares at you, his eyes wide, his face pale. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice. No heat.

“I think I do,” you say softly, taking a step toward him. “I think this—whatever this is between us—scares you as much as it scares me. And I think that’s why you’re pushing me away. Because it’s easier than facing the truth.”

He doesn’t answer, just looks at you, his expression torn. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the war between what he wants and what he thinks he should want. You understand it better than he knows.

“You were right,” you say, your voice low. “We are alike, you and I. More than I ever wanted to admit. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It doesn’t have to mean we’re doomed to destroy each other.”

Colby’s breath hitches, his hands clenching at his sides. “What are you saying?” he asks, his voice rough.

“I’m saying I’m tired of fighting,” you say simply. “I’m tired of hating you. I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel… this.” You gesture between you, encompassing the tension, the attraction, the confusing tangle of emotions that have been building since the moment you met. “I don’t know what it means. I don’t know where it leads. But I know I can’t ignore it anymore.”

He stares at you for a long moment, his expression hidden. Then, slowly, he closes the distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your face. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, and you feel it down your spine. “Milo, I—” He breaks off, his throat working as he swallows hard. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, his voice hushed. “I don’t know how to be… this. With you. With anyone.”

“Neither do I,” you say, leaning into his touch. “But maybe we can figure it out together. If you want to.”

He hesitates, his eyes searching yours. You can see the fear in them, the uncertainty, but also something else. Something warm and hopeful and terrifyingly fragile. “I do,” he says finally, his voice rough. “God help me, I do.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest, your thoughts a chaotic jumble. You want to believe him, want to trust the sincerity in his voice, the warmth in his eyes. But you’ve been burned before, and the scars run deep.

“I need time,” you say finally, your voice low. “This is… a lot. I can’t just switch off years of animosity overnight.”

Colby nods, his hand slipping from your face to rest on your shoulder. “I know,” he says, lightly brushing your collarbone with his thumb. “I’m not expecting miracles. I’m just asking for a chance.”

“A chance,” you repeat, testing the word on your tongue. It feels foreign, dangerous, like a live wire in your hands. “A chance for what, exactly?”

He shrugs, a wry twist to his mouth. “For us to get to know each other. The real us. Not the caricatures we’ve built in our heads.” His hand slides down your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m not saying we won’t fight. But I’m willing to try. If you are.”

You take an unsteady breath, your mind racing. You think of the exposé, the months of work you’ve put into it, the lives you could change with its publication. You think of the people who’ve been hurt by Colby’s actions, the ones who are counting on you to hold him accountable. You think of your own ideals, the ones you’ve built your career on, your identity.

And then you think of Colby, the man behind the myth, the one who looks at you like you’re something precious and rare. The one who makes your heart race and your thoughts scatter. The one who, against all odds, might just be the piece of yourself you’ve been missing all along.

“Okay,” you say softly, the word barely more than a breath. “Okay. We can try.”