Disloyalty

- Slippery -

I woke up, yawning deeply, the plush bedding cocooning me like a warm hug. This bed was heaven—actual heaven. I stretched, savoring the comfort for a moment longer before glancing at the clock on the nightstand.

9:10.

Shit.

I was supposed to be up at 8:30. Throwing back the covers, I scrambled to get dressed and rushed downstairs to find everyone already gathered at the breakfast table. My mum and Charlotte were chatting away, their conversation polite and shallow. 

Andrew sat at one end of the table, his attention fixed on his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. Henry, at the other end, was casually flipping through a book, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Henry drawled without looking up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

I muttered an apology for being late and slid into an empty chair, grabbing a piece of toast. The atmosphere was weird—tense, yet strangely routine.

 Only the mums seemed to be bridging the silence between the two brothers, their lighthearted chatter at odds with the weighty air that hung over the rest of the table.

Andrew barely glanced up from his phone the entire meal, and Henry seemed engrossed in his book, though I caught him sneaking a few glances my way when he thought I wasn't looking.

I couldn't shake the nagging curiosity—what had happened between them to make their relationship so fractured? Whatever it was, it clearly ran deep.

After breakfast, I headed back upstairs, remembering I was supposed to find my ski gear waiting in the wardrobe. Sure enough, there it was, neatly arranged as if someone had planned every detail of this trip to perfection.

Pulling on the layers was a battle. Thermal top and leggings, a white ski jacket, black snow pants—it felt like I was suiting up for war. By the time I picked up my helmet and goggles, I was already sweating. The final insult came when I tried to put on the ski boots.

They looked harmless enough, like oversized ice skates, but the moment I slid my foot in, a sharp, unforgiving pain shot up my leg. I hissed, trying to adjust it, but no matter how I wriggled or shifted, the damn thing felt like a medieval torture device.

Bending over to wrestle with the buckles, my back started to ache, and sweat dripped down the back of my neck despite the chill. The layers suddenly felt suffocating, and frustration bubbled up inside me.

"Ugh, this is ridiculous," I muttered under my breath, my grunts of effort echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

"Need help?"

The voice startled me, and I looked up to see Andrew standing in the doorway. He was already fully geared up in sleek black ski wear, his helmet dangling casually from one hand. His dark hair was tousled, no doubt from the helmet, giving him an effortlessly rugged look that made my stomach flip.

I swallowed hard, trying to ignore how good he looked. "Uh... yeah. I think these boots hate me."

He stepped into the room, crouching in front of me without hesitation.

"You're not doing it right," he said, his voice low and matter-of-fact as he knelt on the floor.

My breath hitched as his hands reached for my boot. The sight of him, on his knees in front of me, sent a rush of heat through my body that had nothing to do with the layers I was wearing. 

His fingers moved deftly, unfastening the straps I'd clumsily tangled and adjusting them with practiced ease.

I tried to focus on what he was doing, but my mind betrayed me, wandering to how close he was. His head was bent, the strands of his hair falling into his eyes as he worked.