Sorcha meant to go to class that morning.

She really did.

She just... couldn't.

Not when flurries of snow pelted the window and the wind howled like a banshee.

Definitely a snow day.

Sorcha smiled as she tugged the heavy quilt she dug out of the closet when the temperatures fell over her and the figure asleep beside her.

That Malcolm continued to sleep with the wind shrieking like it was surprised her. The last few nights had been especially brutal sleep-wise. His night terrors had come with an alarming frequency. What triggered them, she didn't know.

All she could do was what she always did when the darkness came to try and claim him: she beat it back with the light.

Some nights were worse than others, though.

The demons more vicious and demanding.

Their grip on Malcolm tighter than the strings on the guitar she bought to replace the one that broke.

She didn't let go.

No, she held onto Malcolm a little tighter. Fought just a bit harder.

Because Malcolm Bright was worth it.

Even if he didn't think so.

Sorcha turned on her side so she could study his sleeping profile. Them long sable lashes he had been blessed with hid those mesmeric eyes from her.

Malcolm looked so innocent when asleep. Free of worry and care.

When he was awake, though, it was a serious face. One, she realized as the hand atop his chest jerked, she'd come to adore. She'd remember his face forever, just as she'd remember the sound of his voice, the feel of his lips against hers.

She especially liked when he first awoke.

He wasn't so moody then.

Was more prone to teasing.

Open to suggestions.

And she definitely had a few things in mind they could do to occupy themselves while the world outside was a wintry hell.

"You hid my shaving kit again," Malcolm murmured without opening his eyes. "Didn't you?"

Should have known he was awake, she realized, lips quirking.

"Maaaaybe."

"You did." He cracked open an eye to look at her. "I can tell by that smug tone."

"Not gonna find it this time, either," she playfully taunted. "I've hid it where you can't get to it."

Not without braving the storm, she added silently.

Malcolm heaved a sigh

"I haven't shaved in three days."

"Yeah, and this is a problem, why?"

"I'm growing a beard."

"Again..." she teased. "This is a problem why?"

"If my mother sees me unshaven..."

"I'll tell her that since I'm the one sleeping with you that I get the larger vote on you going unshaven or not."

He smiled at her. "You wouldn't dare tell her that."

"I would in a heartbeat and you know it."

"I'm fine with her not knowing, thank you."

"One normal thing you do..."

Malcolm breathed out a laugh as he stretched. Sorcha took that as an invitation to snuggle a little closer. His arm curling around her, proving her right.

Sorcha pillowed her head on his chest before reaching over to thumb open the lock on his wrist restraint. She had only conceded to their use after one particularly violent episode. Even then she only agreed because Malcolm almost had a complete meltdown about it.

"I think you look delectable with a beard and goatee," she said as she pushed the cuff to the floor. The other one she left in place. It, she decided, could prove useful later. "Less innocent high schooler and more edgy college student."

"I look like my father."

The way he said it, that small, verbal explosion, triggered memories of other times he made similar comments. He never saw himself as himself. Only as Martin Whitly.

The internal war of Malcolm Bright.

Who was he if he wasn't his father's son?

A question she kept trying to help him answer.

"You're not him, though, Mal." She angled her head to look at him. "You're you."

"I'm his son. We're the—"

"No, you're not." She slid atop him so he couldn't escape like he had last time they had this particular discussion. "You're not the same at all."

And that, she decided as he stared up at her, is final.

Well, in her mind, it was.

In Malcolm's?

It was far from being so.

"Sorch." Malcolm sat up so they were eye-to-eye. "I am like him. I can't deny that."

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're just like your mom? That all those things you think came from your dad actually came from her?"

"But." His brow creased. "He..."

"Manipulates and lies."

"I know he does."

The sea of hurt in those eyes caused her heart to throb. She hated doing this to him. Hated she had to do this to him. Someone had too, though.

"Martin Whitly has convinced you that you and he are mirror images and you're not. You're not." Sorcha framed his face with her hands. "You're not him. You merely share traits with him. Same as you do your mother."

"Who am I then, Sorch?" The raw, naked vulnerability etched onto Malcolm's face cut her heart into a billion pieces. "Who am I if I'm not him?"

"You're you, Mal." Sorcha rest her forehead to his. "You're you."

A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!

I just want to send a special thank you to Rookblonkorules for their lovely reviews!