The movement brings me directly behind her, my chest against her back, my arms bracketing her body as I brace against the door. For a heartbeat, we’re locked in place—her soft warmth pressed against me, the scent of her shampoo mixing with hay dust and winter air.
Her grass-green eyes lift to mine, widening—not with fear, but with something sharper, something alive. Her focus flicks to my mouth, quick and involuntary, before she drags it back up.
Her pulse hammers in my ears, quick and fragile, where my orc senses lock onto it. Each shallow breath brushes warm against my skin, and the way she’s watching me—like she might finally stop fighting this…attraction—turns every nerve ending into raw fire.
“Laney,” I say, and her name comes out rough as gravel.
“We should…” she starts, but doesn’t finish the thought.
The wind howls outside, reminding us we’re sheltered here, close and warm, while the storm builds. Her hands come up to rest against my chest, and I’m not sure if she’s planning to push me away or pull me closer.
Time stretches. Her breath stutters. The space between us feels electric, charged with possibility and want and something deeper than either of us is ready to name.
I start to lower my head, drawn by the soft curve of her mouth and the way she’s looking at me like I’m the answer to a question she’s been afraid to ask.
Then reality crashes back.
“I… we should finish moving these before the storm gets worse,” she says, her voice strained.
“Laney—”
“Please.” The word comes out sharp, almost desperate. “Let’s just… focus on the work.”
I want to push, to ask what just happened and why she’s running from something that felt so right. But the look in her eyes stops me. Whatever she’s afraid of, pressuring her isn’t going to help.
“Of course,” I say instead, stepping back to give her space. “Animals come first.”
We finish moving the hay in silence, the easy partnership from earlier replaced by careful politeness. She won’t meet my eyes, and I find myself cataloging the ways she avoids getting too close—passing tools at arm’s length, walking wide paths around me, keeping busy with tasks that don’t require coordination.
By late afternoon, we’ve done everything possible to secure the property and returned from town with enough food to feed either an entire Roman legion or one pot-bellied pig. The animals are sheltered, supplies stocked, and extra bedding distributed. The cabin looks like a fortress ready to weather whatever nature throws at us.
But the real storm isn’t the one approaching from the west.
It’s the one we just unleashed between us, and I have no idea how to navigate it.
The first snowflakes start falling as we finish our final check of the animals. Wet, heavy flakes that mean business, sticking to the ground immediately instead of melting on contact.
“It’s starting,” Laney observes unnecessarily, pulling her hood up against the increasing wind.
“And it’s moving fast.” I check my weather app quickly in case we lose reliable service. “Temperature’s dropping quicker than predicted.”
“The animals should be fine in the barn; they’re built for cold weather. But we’ll have to keep them in thick, clean bedding and check on them regularly.”
Back inside the cabin, heat and lamplight wrap around us. We stack supplies, make a quick pot of soup, and run through the checklist one more time. Two hours pass in the soft clatter of dishes and the ebb and flow of the wind. When the lights flicker, we both freeze.
“That’s not good,” she says.
Another gust of wind hits the cabin hard enough to rattle the windows. Laney glances at the clock, then toward the barn.
“First check-in,” she says, voice firm. “Let’s make sure everyone’s settled for the night.”
I pull on my heaviest coat and grab a flashlight.
“I’ll take the east side; you take the west?” Her tone brooks no argument, and she’s already zipping her parka.
“Laney, you don’t need to—”
“Yes, I do.” She lifts her chin in defiance. “They’re my responsibility.”
