“Because we needed the wood more than I needed warm hands,” she says, but her voice wavers.
“You don’t get to make that call,” I tell her roughly. “Not when it’s your body on the line.”
I pull her closer to the fire, strip off my own gloves, and capture her frozen fingers between my palms. Rub gently, trying to force circulation back without causing damage. Lift them to my mouth and breathe warm air across the white tips.
She’s staring at me with those wide brown eyes that make me want to burn the whole world down to keep her safe. The intimacy of the moment cuts through the lingering adrenaline, the fear, everything.
I keep rubbing, keep breathing warmth, watching color slowly return to her fingertips. Pink creeping back where white had taken hold.
“One thing I don’t understand.” I tell her as I work. “You were outside for four hours yesterday working on that generator and your hands were fine. Meanwhile, this was what, twenty minutes? Thirty at most? It didn’t feel that much colder to me.”
She glances down at her fingers, then back up at me. “Fight or flight response. When you’re terrified, your body shunts blood away from extremities to protect vital organs. It’s an evolutionary survival mechanism. Core temperature preservation at the expense of fingers and toes.”
I nod in understanding. “So fear made your hands colder than the actual cold did.”
“Basically.” Her voice is steadier now, slipping into scientist mode. “Yesterday I was focused on the repair work. Problem solving. Today I was scanning for a predator that could kill us. And when we heard it... my sympathetic nervous system went into overdrive and decided my heart and brain needed blood more than my fingers.”
“Fuck,” I hiss.
“It’s better now, though,” she says.
I nod, but keep doing what I’m doing until I’m satisfied her hands are the same temperature as mine.
And I just stare into her eyes.
She returns my gaze, somewhat shyly.
We’re both alive.
Both safe.
Bothhere.
20
Sorrel
We’re still standing by the fireplace, wood scattered haphazardly around us because apparently proper stacking protocols go out the window when you nearly become cougar breakfast and your hands feel like they’re about to fall off.
Speaking of which, my hands are finally warm again. Gregory’s palms are still wrapped around mine, his thumbs making absent circles across my knuckles even though the circulation is clearly back.
Meanwhile my heart is still hammering from the firewood mission. From seeing those massive paw prints circling the food storage. From hearing thatsound.
And Gregory... he was positioned protectively behind me the entire time, like he was ready to jump between me and that two-hundred-pound cat if it decided we looked like lunch.
Gregory, who gave me his expensive jacket so I’d stay warm. Well, it didn’t quite help with my hands, but it’s the thought that counts.
Gregory, who’s staring at me now with a look I can’t quite decipher.
Gregory...
“Sorrel,” he starts, his voice rough.
But I’m already moving.
I don’t even think about it.
One second I’m just standing there stupidly in front of him, the next I’m closing the distance between us and kissing him like my life depends on it.
