He means me. After the fever.
Or... no.
Is he talking about... himself?
Can’t be.
The silence that follows feels heavy with meaning.
Outside, the storm continues. Inside, something fundamental is shifting between us.
And I’m not quite sure what.
I’m supposed to hate him. I know that much. Supposed to maintain my moral high ground. Supposed to remember that he signed off on poisoning villages for profit.
But right now, watching him across the kitchen island on Christmas morning, I’m having trouble reconciling the man in front of me with the monster I built in my head.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For... the coffee. And for listening. For not being a complete asshole even though I keep calling you one.”
His mouth twitches again. “Give me time...”
I laugh despite myself.
And that’s when I realize I’m in serious trouble.
Because somewhere along the way, between the hypothermia and the fever and waking up in his arms, Gregory became human.
And that terrifies me more than any blizzard ever could.
10
Gregory
The storm is still pounding the windows when we venture outside to grab some of the meat we stored out there yesterday. Sorrel insists on coming with me even though I tell her to stay by the fire.
“I need to see how the food is holding up,” she says, already pulling on her field jacket. “Make sure nothing’s been disturbed.”
Stubborn woman.
With the wind and snow biting at the exposed parts of our faces, we trudge through knee-deep snow to the north side where we stacked everything yesterday. The bins are exactly where we left them, perfectly organized according to her system. The tarp is weighted down with firewood, undisturbed. Everything is holding at subzero temperatures, a natural deep freeze that makes my useless luxury refrigerator look pathetic.
She checks each container methodically, her breath misting in the frigid air. “All good. Nothing’s been at it.”
Yet.
I grab two steaks from the top bin. Prime cuts that Vin left, probably a hundred dollars’ worth of beef. In my normal life, Iwouldn’t think twice about the cost. Now I’m grateful we have them at all.
“Should last us another week at least,” she says, surveying our cache. “Maybe more if we’re careful.”
A week.
The words hang between us...
We head back inside and she takes over the kitchen without asking permission.
She grabs the matches from the drawer where I keep them and strikes one, holding the flame near the burner while turning the gas knob. The range ignites smoothly, a controlled bloom of blue flame that she adjusts with ease.
I watch her season the steaks with salt and pepper from Vin’s spice collection. Then she heats the cast iron pan on the gas range until it’s smoking hot. She knows exactly what she’s doing... no doubt the result of years of cooking on camp stoves and makeshift field setups.
