I wake to the sound of a stove door creaking open and the soft thunk of wood sliding into flame.
Thatcher stands at the stove in a Henley that's seen better days—threadbare at the seams, the fabric so worn I can see the shape of his shoulders and the muscles shifting beneath. The color's faded to something between gray and green, and it clings in all the right ways. His hair's a little messy, beard shadowing his jaw, and somehow it feels unfair that he can be so damn hot this early in the morning.
I brush my fingers on my swollen lips. After a few minutes of absolutelygloriouskissing last night, he pulled away, insisting that he needed to check on things outside the cabin before going to bed. Something about making sure the firewood was covered because wet firewood would be useless to us. And with that, he rushed out of the cabin leaving me hot and bothered andalone.
He glances over, catching me watching him. "You snore."
"I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do." But there's warmth in his voice, affection even, and it makes something flutter in my chest.
Why did he pull away from me last night? He seems interested…
I groan into the blanket, which smells like him. "Great,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “First you kidnap me, then you insult me. The full mountain-man package."
He pours me a mug of coffee, brings it over, and crouches beside the cot. This close, I can see the faint scar through his eyebrow and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Here’s a peace offering."
The steam curls between us, carrying the rich, bitter scent of dark roast. I take the cup, our fingers brushing, and the little spark that jumps is ridiculous. Instant. Impossible to ignore.
"Thanks," I murmur.
"Storm's easing up," he says, but he doesn't move away. "But you shouldn't head down yet. The drifts are knee-high."
I sip and smile into the rim. The coffee's strong enough to wake the dead, exactly the way I like it. "So, you're saying I'm trapped."
"I'm saying you should stay put."
"Trapped," I repeat, and he shakes his head, but there's laughter under the low rumble of it—a sound I'm quickly becoming addicted to.
His hand comes up, almost unconsciously, and he tucks a loose curl behind my ear. His fingertips are callused, rough, but his touch is gentle. "You're trouble, you know that?"
"You keep saying that like it's a bad thing."
"It is a bad thing." But he's leaning closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "The worst."
A smile tugs at my lips. “Then why can’t you stay away from me?”
"Because I'm an idiot." And then his mouth finds mine again, slow and thorough, tasting like coffee and promises.
I set the mug aside blindly, hearing it thunk against the floorboards, and pull him closer. The kiss is different this morning—less urgent than last night, but somehow deeper. More deliberate. Like we're both learning the shape of this thing between us.
When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his breathing unsteady. "We should—"
"Go outside and clear snow or something," I finish. "I know. Responsible mountain things."
Just like you tended to last night when things started to get heated between us.
“Something like that,” he says with a laugh. The sound wraps around me like a blanket. "But I was going to suggest breakfast first."
After a light breakfast, we're outside clearing the porch. The snow's blinding, glittering like powdered glass under the sun. The air's so cold it hurts to breathe, burning in my lungs, but the sky's that impossible blue that makes everything feel brand new.
I swing the detector out of habit, sweeping near the edge of the rail cut where the snow's been blown thin. It chirps once—bright, certain, a tone I've learned to trust.
"Hey!" I drop to my knees, scraping at the crust with gloved hands. The snow's crusted on top, soft beneath, and my fingers are already numb. A tiny flash of gold winks back: a coin, dulled but real, about the size of a quarter. I brush it clean with shaking fingers.
"Would you look at that," I whisper, wonder thick in my voice. “It’s a real gold coin.”
Thatcher crouches beside me, brushing snow from his gloves. This close, I can see the frost clinging to his beard, the way his breath clouds white. "You actually found something."
