The house is cold and silent. Like the snow, Jory thinks. Bruce offered to come in, but Jory knows Peter isn’t feeling up for company. As he closes the front door behind him, the latch clicks loudly in the foyer. He tosses his coat into the chair, his keys landing on top. “Peter?” he calls out.
There’s no response.
Must be sleeping, he muses as he trudges upstairs. The thought of lying beside his lover on their bed sounds wonderful.
But the bedroom is empty. Jory turns on the light and frowns at the bed, crisply made, the blankets tucked neatly beneath the pillows, one corner turned down.
“Peter?” he calls again, crossing the room to peek inside the bathroom.
It too is empty. A sudden fear courses through Jory’s veins like ice water. Where—
“You’re home.”
Jory whirls as Peter ent
