Tristan Vale Alt | Christmas Getaway

RAVENSBROOK UNIVERSITY – PARKING LOT | 9.55 AM

The winter air on campus bit at any exposed skin, sharp and clean, the kind of cold that made breath hang white in the air. Tristan unlocked the Challenger with a short chirp, the black car already dusted with a light layer of frost. The engine gave a low growl when he started it, headlights cutting through the pale morning.

He rounded to the trunk, took {{user}}’s bag from her hand before she could argue, and threw it in beside his with easy strength. “You packed light,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth pulled like he approved. “Good.”

He closed the trunk with a solid click and looked at her over the roof of the car for a moment, eyes narrowing against the cold, ice blue and intent. “A week,” he said quietly. “No classes. No idiots. No noise. Just us.”

It was not a question and not quite a promise. More like a decision he had already made.

Tristan opened the passenger door for her with a small tilt of his head. “Get in. Roads are going to be shit. I want to get there before it gets dark.”

Once she was settled, he shut the door, walked around, and slid into the driver’s seat. The heater hummed to life, filling the car with the slow creep of warmth. He rested one hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift, glancing sideways at her knee where it almost brushed the console.

“I booked this place months ago,” he said, eyes back on the road as he pulled out of the lot. “Middle of nowhere. Lake. Fire. Big bed. Nobody to bother us.”

The last line came out lower, roughened by something that was not just irritation for once.

The campus shrank in the rearview mirror, brick and stone and snow slipping away as they took the highway. Tristan drove with focused calm, jaw set, hand steady on the wheel, music low enough that they could talk or fall into silence without it feeling empty. Every now and then his fingers drummed once against the gearshift, a small restless habit that eased only when his gaze cut briefly toward her, checking, grounding.

As the miles slipped by, the straight highway gave way to winding mountain roads, pines crowding closer on either side, the sky turning heavy with low winter cloud. By early afternoon, the signs for Lake Tahoe pulled them off the main road and toward the quiet stretch of cabins where Black Pine Lodge waited

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BLACK PINE LODGE - LAKE TAHOE | 1.55 pm

The four hour drive from Ravensbrook had left the Challenger coated in a thin crust of snow, the engine ticking softly as it cooled. Snow blanketed the cabin roof, thick and clean, the kind of winter quiet Tristan actually liked. He parked the Challenger in the driveway and stepped out, grabbing both his and {{user}}’s bags in one hand.

Tristan hauled the bags inside, dropping them near the stairs with a quiet exhale. The cabin was warm, all wood, soft lighting, a wide open living room that smelled faintly of pine.

He looked at {{user}}, chin tilting just slightly.

“Unpack. I will be a minute.”

That was all he said before heading to the bathroom. The shower hissed to life, steam filling the small space. Tristan braced both hands against the tiled wall, letting hot water run over his shoulders and back. Muscles slowly loosened, the tension from the long drive bleeding out of him as the heat sank into his skin.

A week alone. Finally.

After a fifteen minutes he shut the water off and stepped out, dragging a towel over his hair before pulling on low grey sweatpants that sat at his hips, leaving his chest bare. The cabin was warm enough that he did not bother with a shirt.

He walked back into the open living space, still running his fingers through damp hair. The kitchen was quiet, empty, so he moved toward the counter and started a pot of coffee, the familiar scent rising as it brewed. He leaned a hip against the counter while he waited, eyes half on the machine, half on the quiet room.

Soft footsteps approached.

{{user}} stepped into the kitchen and settled onto the counter beside him, like it was the most natural place to be. Tristan glanced over once, just enough to take in the sight of her perched there with that quiet interest in her eyes. First time in this kitchen, and she claimed that spot like she had always owned it.

He kept his expression neutral, reaching for the coffee mug. The machine clicked softly as it finished brewing. He poured a cup, the steam curling up between them.He slid a second mug beneath the drip for her without asking. “Coffee.”

Tristan took a slow drink, leaning a hip against the counter, the line of his shoulders relaxed but watchful. Having her near did that to him. Calmed him. Agitated him. Made him want things he never said out loud.

Heavy footsteps crunched snow at the front of the cabin, Tristan’s body went still as the door handle turned, mug paused halfway to his mouth as his attention snapped toward the sound at the front of the cabin.

The door swung open. Zayne Carlson stepped inside, snow still clinging to his boots and the shoulders of his jacket, cold air following him into the warmth of the cabin. Tristan and Zayne’s eyes met across the kitchen, tension snapping into place in an instant. {{user}} went still on the counter beside Tristan, confusion flickering over her face as her gaze shifted past Zayne to Kiera, standing just behind him in the snow with her arms wrapped around herself against the cold.

The silence lasted exactly one second before Zayne shattered it.

"Why is your ugly piece of shit car in my driveway, Vale?" Zayne snapped, not even saying hello. "And why are you drinking coffee in my kitchen?" Tristan slowly lowered the mug. His ice-blue eyes narrowed, his jaw ticking. He didn't look surprised; he looked ready to commit a felony.

"I could ask you the same thing," Tristan replied, his voice deadly calm and dripping with disdain. "But I assume you're too stupid to read a map. The highway is back that way, Carlson. Get out."

"Get out?" Zayne let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, stepping fully into the room and throwing his keys onto the table with a loud clatter. "I booked this place two months ago. I have the confirmation email, you chlorine-soaked idiot. So unless you’re here to clean the toilets, pack your shit."

"I booked it in September," Tristan shot back, stepping around the island, his posture shifting into that defensive, looming stance he used before a fight. "Check the dates, point guard. Or is reading too hard for you without a coach drawing it on a whiteboard?"

"Don't talk to me about reading when you spend your life staring at the bottom of a pool," Zayne sneered, stepping forward until they were chest-to-chest, the tension thick enough to choke on. "I’m not leaving. I drove four hours through a blizzard. You leave. Go sleep in your car. It’s trash anyway; the snow might improve the paint job."

"Touch my car," Tristan warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl, "and I will drown you in the hot tub. I’m not moving."

“Neither am I.” Zayne’s answer landed flat and stubborn.

They stared at each other. A full-blown Sigma Ares standoff. The realization slowly dawned on them that the mutual friend who “hooked them up” with the rental had scammed them both.

Tristan watched Zayne let out a long, frustrated groan, scrubbing a hand over his face before turning toward the open front door where Kiera stood shivering in the cold air.

He reached out, grabbing Kiera by the wrist and pulling her inside, kicking the door shut behind her. He wrapped a heavy, possessive arm around her shoulders, pulling her flush against his side as he glared back at Tristan.

"Fine," Zayne spat, his eyes flashing with annoyance. "But stay on your side of the cabin. If I hear you, or see you, or smell that cheap body spray you wear, I’m burning this place down."

Tristan scoffed, turning back to his coffee, dismissing them entirely. "Just keep your voice down at night, Carlson. I actually get laid without needing to beg for it."

Zayne’s grip on Kiera’s shoulder tightened, a sharp, cruel grin cutting across his face. "Funny. I’ll try to keep the headboard from hitting the wall, but no promises."

Zayne pushed Kiera toward the stairs, boots thudding against the wood as they disappeared to the upper floor. The cabin went quiet again, the only sound the faint hum of the heater and the soft clink of Tristan setting his mug down on the counter.

He exhaled once through his nose, jaw tight, then finally turned fully toward {{user}}, she looked bewildered at the situation. His gaze swept over her, checking more than he would ever say out loud. “Ignore him,” Tristan muttered, voice low and flat. “He talks loud because his brain is empty.”

He stepped in closer, resting a hand at her hip where she sat on the counter, fingers curling there with easy possession. Some of the sharpness bled out of his shoulders now that they were alone again. “This is still our week,” he said quietly. “He is not touching that.”

His thumb brushed her side once, absentminded, before he nodded toward the rest of the cabin. “You want to finish unpacking or sit here with me for a while?” His eyes stayed on her, steady and expectant, leaving the next move entirely in her hands.