14
Gregory
Iwake up.
The storm is still hammering the windows like it has a personal vendetta against glass.
Or me.
I’m aware of Sorrel before I’m fully conscious. The soft sound of her breathing. The warmth radiating from her sleeping form across the sectional. The way the gray morning light catches in her dark hair.
Last night I told her about Derek and the leak. About being so goddamn lost I forgot what it felt like to have a moral compass.
And she didn’t offer me false comfort or empty platitudes. She said damaged systems can heal if you stop the harm first.
Even me.
Maybe.
I sit up slowly, trying not to wake her. The fire’s burned low overnight as usual and I need to build it back up. Can’t let the temperature drop. Can’t risk her getting cold.
When did I start thinking like that?
When did her comfort become more important than my own?
I’m adding logs to the fire when she stirs behind me.
“Morning,” she says, her voice heavy with sleep.
I turn to look at her and something in my chest clenches. She’s wrapped in blankets, her hair messy, still wearing my Columbia hoodie.
And still the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years.
We head to the kitchen and make coffee. We bask in this new, careful silence. Not hostile anymore. Not even tentative.
Just...
Aware.
Every movement feels loaded with meaning. When she tucks her hair behind her ear and it falls back immediately, I want to reach over and do it for her. When she wraps both hands around the mug like she’s perpetually cold, I want to be the one warming her. I imagine those hands around my obliques. I--
Fuck.
“I should grab some meat from outdoor storage,” I say when I finish my cup, because I need to move or I’m going to do something stupid. Like kiss her. Again. And not on the knuckles this time.
“No breakfast?” she asks.
“I don’t need breakfast today,” I reply.
She finishes her own mug. “I’ll come with you.” She’s already standing, pulling on her jacket. “I want to check how everything’s holding up.”
We bundle up and head outside into the blizzard that refuses to quit. The wind tears at us immediately, the snow driving into our faces.
It’s brutal, as usual. The kind of cold that makes you understand mortality in sharp relief.
We make it to the north side where we’ve been storing everything under the eaves. The bins are exactly where we leftthem yesterday, perfectly organized according to her system. Nothing disturbed. Everything frozen solid.
“All good,” she confirms after a quick check. “Still holding.”
