Page 4 of Snowed In

All of his children, it turned out, was Magnus alone because his mother decided she didn’t want to take the chance with any siblings. Magnus also tried not to take that personally, but it was a little hard not to. It didn’t seem to matter how smart he was, or how accomplished. She always boiled his achievements down to what he’d done in spite of his disability.

Not because of his brain. Or his hard work.

No. It was some sort of miracle she liked to write about in long, flowery Facebook posts in both Swedish and English.

She went viral a few times, which had sent him into a rage. The last time, he’d deleted his entire account so he could pretend she wasn’t like this. He did always wonder what his father found appealing about her, but he wasn’t about to ask. Frankly, he was terrified the answer would be graphic, and he had enough childhood trauma involving walking in to hear them going at it to last him three lifetimes.

But some of his mother’s hysteria had stuck with him. The cleaning, for one. If a guest was coming over, he panicked like they were going to immediately start rifling through his drawers and cupboards to find his hidden messes.

The cooking was another. His mother had been petrified he’d never be able to take care of himself or burn down the kitchen if he tried, so she’d sent him to the school for the blind in Paris one summer when he was fourteen so he could learn life skills. That included a culinary education from a French professional.

He’d been bitter at first, afraid he was going to be locked in some dorm and let out only to fumble about the kitchen before being put away again. Instead, his dorm attendants and all the teachers there didn’t give two fucks about what he and the other students did so long as they showed up on time for lessons.

It was his first real time away from home, so he bashed around Paris—literally in some cases. He got lost on the metro and found hisway into forbidden and off-limits corners of every monument and tourist trap. He nearly fell down the stairs in the Arc de Triomphe, and was clipped by not one butthreedistracted drivers when he was crossing the road to the Champs-Elyseé.

He came home battered, bruised, and a more confident man for that one decision his mother had made on his behalf.

And hedidlearn to cook, which meant he could impress both guests and boyfriends.

And also, maybe, the ridiculously adorable physicist who was coming to his house in the middle of a snowstorm to pick up where their other colleague had left off.

Normally Magnus hated physics professors—not for their lack of skill, but for their complacency in the whole mess that were modern universities. He always held on to a tinge of bitterness because he knew half of his university acceptance letters were because he was blind. They had nothing to do with his marks—which had been stellar his whole career.

Or his field of research—which was still in infancy since technology was only just starting to allow them all to have a look into deep, deep space. But it was the perfect field for him because, sighted or not, they were all going into it blind.

There was no magic portal to open a window to what was out there. It was all numbers and equations and measuring light and sound waves on computers. They all created their own images out of them. Magnus had taken up printing and painting, and if he decided to quit his job one day, he was pretty sure he could retire comfortably on his art hobby.

But Adam was different.

Adam Harvey—a man with two first names, which always made him smile.

ProfessorHarvey.

Magnus was just a tiny bit obsessed with him. Adam was the first person Magnus had ever asked someone to describe. None of the words made sense to him in a logical way. Yeah, he understood whatdark hair and brown eyes meant, but it wasn’t like he could paint a picture.

But for whatever reason, it felt like it mattered.

Maybe because Adam treated him likehemattered. Maybe because Adam was the only person that ever made Magnus feel like he belonged there on his own merit, and not as some diversity tick box performing tricks.

So knowing that Piper wasn’t coming to pick up the notes they’d been working on—knowing that Adam would be there and might actually spend some time with him outside of the lab? He was excited.

And maybe a little panicked.

When he got the text that Adam was less than half an hour away, he frantically rushed into the kitchen of the little rental and began to paw around the cupboards. He was the kind of man who neglected his own nutritional needs when he was deep in a project, so he wasn’t entirely surprised to find nothing more than a box of stale croissants, a basket of fruit—the apples felt okay, the bananas were on the soft side—a packet of crunchy toasts, and a tin of coffee that was far too empty for a couple of scientists.

And he had no time to go to the market before Adam arrived, and no time to arrange a ride—not that one would be willing to pick him up with the snow on the road and more forecasted on the horizon.

He’d have to make do.

He searched the fridge, but the vegetable bins were tragically empty, though his fingers brushed over something he thought was probably milk—he was too afraid to give it a sniff. It might have been juice, but he hadn’t touched it in days.

God, he was a damn disaster.

Then he heard the sound of a car door, and his heart kicked up three notches.

Adam was there. He was there.

Oh.

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