“I can hear the river, Pete,” he said, eyes wide and full of tears.

Peter’s eyes darted to the rim, realising he could hear the thundering pummel of rapids too. “Don’t focus on that.”

“I can hear it dashing over the rocks below me.”

“I said don’t—”

Something cracked, like wood splintering, and a hairline fracture appeared. It drew itself in the snow right in between them like a pencil line on blank paper. A moment later, the line began to thicken.

The cornice sank. Cooper’s eyes widened. It would give way any moment now. Peter scrambled to his feet, helpless to do anything, but Cooper obviously didn’t dare risk doing the same. If he placed all his weight on one spot, the cornice would simply drop right out from underneath him.

The fracture widened further. One side had the solid foundation of the whole cliff beneath it, the other nothing but air and a river some several hundred feet below.

Peter heard snow on the underside of the cornice starting to give way. It dashed like dry sand over the rocks below. The snow beneath Cooper’s fingertips started to withdraw. He lifted both hands, trying to gain better purchase on the surface layer, but the snow only continued to recede underneath him.

There should have been a mad scramble. Panic. Instead, there was calm. Cooper’s eyes searched Peter’s. Don’t, said Peter, without saying the words. Don’t you dare tell me you love me. But Cooper insisted. And somehow those dark eyes smiled, carrying the memory of their adventures together and the new worlds they had shared, not just out here but inside each other, in those places that belonged only to them.

The cornice gave way. But in the moment it broke free of the cliff, Cooper pinned himself flat, distributing his weight down the length of his entire body, and rolled like a log towards Peter. Peter grabbed hold of his arms, his waist, his belt, his jeans, hoisting his body and legs back up on to the cliff until he was completely sure they both had solid ground beneath them, and toppled backwards clear of the rim.

The shelf of snow dropped. The cornice cracked across rock, exploding into plumes of white powder into the valley below. Then there was silence. Peter rolled into the crook of Cooper’s arm, frantically wiping off all the hair and snow that had smooshed into his face, and kissed his cheek.

“Coop.”

“I’m OK, Pete.”

Peter kissed the other cheek, his lips, his forehead and nose. “Cooper.”

“I’m right here.”

“I know but I—”

“And I can’t breathe.”

Peter recoiled. “Why, what’s wrong? Did you swallow some snow?”

“Nope.” Cooper winced. “Nope, I think that’ll just be you squeezin’ me too hard.”

“Oh, sorry.”