And our hands collide.
We both freeze.
The pot is heavy, awkward, requiring both of us to hold it steady. But our hands are overlapped now. We should adjust our grips, should find a way to carry this that doesn’t involve touching.
We should move apart.
Neither of us does.
“Careful,” he says, his voice coming out a rasp. “It’s hot.”
“I know.” And I’m not talking about the pot.
We carry it together to the counter, our movements carefully synchronized, neither willing to break contact.
When we set it down, his hand lingers over mine on the handle. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel his pulse through his fingertips, or maybe that’s my own heartbeat.
His thumb moves fractionally against my knuckle, and the small motion sends electricity straight through me.
This is bad.
So bad.
I should step away.
Should remember who he is and what he represents and why I’m supposed to hate him.
Should recall every principle I’ve built my entire academic career on.
But I don’t move.
“Sorrel.” My name on his lips does something to my core. If I wasn’t wet before, I am now.
“Yeah?” I finally look up at him, and immediately regret it because his eyes are so blue and so intense and so focused entirely on me.
“I--” He stops. Swallows hard. His fingers tighten fractionally over mine.
The moment stretches. Steam from the cooling water rises between us.
“Your water’s ready,” I whisper, even though that’s possibly the least relevant thing in the universe right now.
He glances down at our joined hands on the pot handle. “Right.”
Finally, reluctantly, he lets go. And I pull my hand back.
The loss of contact feels wrong somehow. I step away from the counter, wrapping my arms around myself like I can contain whatever just happened.
“Your turn,” I manage. “For the bath. Plenty of hot water now.”
“Thanks.” He’s still looking at me like I’m more than some mere stranger he’s trapped and coexisting with in his chalet.
And that scares the scariest part.
Not the blizzard or the isolation or the limited resources. Not even the ideological chasm between us or the fact that his company poisons groundwater.
The scariest part is how much I want him to keep looking at me exactly like this.
How much I want to close the space between us and find out if his lips are as soft as they look. If his hands would be gentle or demanding. If he’d kiss me like I’m precious or like he’s starving.
