I snap out of my reverie to find him watching me with an amused glint in his eyes that suggests he knows exactly where my thoughts wandered.
“Fine!” I squeak, grabbing the other end of the mattress with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary. “Totally fine. Just, uh, making sure you don’t hit Peanut’s cage.”
“Right,” he says, and there’s definitely laughter in his voice now. “Wouldn’t want to disturb Peanut.”
We angle the mattress through the living room, working in tandem now. When we reach the fireplace, he lowers his end with controlled strength, then helps me position mine. The mattress settles onto the floor with a soft thump, immediately transforming our sleeping arrangements from “medieval torture” to “actually civilized.”
“There,” I say, slightly breathless—and not just from the physical exertion. “Much better.”
“Much better,” he agrees, but he’s not looking at the mattress. He’s looking at me, firelight dancing across his features, making his green skin seem to glow from within.
For a moment, we just stand here, the reality of what we’ve done settling over us. One mattress. On the floor. In front of the fire. Together.
The air between us thickens, charged with possibility and unspoken questions.
Before I can apologize yet again, Hamlet waddles over with imperial dignity, grunts once, and heaves himself onto the couch. The cushions groan under his bulk as he sprawls out with the smugness of a king who’s just claimed his throne.
“At least someone’s comfortable,” I say dryly.
“Guess Hamlet called dibs,” Ryder says, chuckling. His eyes crinkle when he laughs, and for a second, I forget the storm howling outside.
I settle onto my side of the mattress, leaving a careful strip of space between us—enough to be proper, not so much that I lose the warmth he’s churning out like a furnace. The firelight glints off the faint ivory curve of his tusks and the black braid that slips over one massive shoulder, reminders that he’s not human—yet somehow, he feels safe.
The arrangement is cozy in a way that feels both intimate and surprisingly natural. I catch myself watching Ryder in the firelight, the way his big hands move with quiet efficiency as he unfolds his blanket. It’s strange how easily he fits into the rhythms of my cabin, like he’s been here longer than a few days.
As we’re spreading blankets and trading the occasional joke about whose side of the fire is warmer, Duchess lets out a sharp, urgent moan from her large, comfortable crate. The sound cuts through our easy banter instantly.
I kneel beside her, watching as she paces restlessly, panting lightly. “She’s definitely going into labor.”
“Tonight?” Ryder asks, then answers himself. “Of course it would be tonight, with the lights off and the wind about to rattle the panes out of the windows.” He’s upright in a heartbeat, all focus. He edges closer, close enough to help if I need him but careful not to take over.
“All the signs are there. The barometric pressure from the storm could have triggered it.” I stroke Duchess gently, feeling the tension in her small body.
Another gust of wind hits the cabin hard enough to make the whole structure creak, and we both glance toward the windows where snow is building against the glass.
I grab my phone on instinct, thumbing the screen, but the signal bars are gone—just a blank “No Service” mocking me. It weighs on me like a stone in my stomach.
“We’re completely cut off now,” I observe, the reality settling in. “No power, no phone service. Even if something goes wrong, there’s no way to get help. The roads are going to be slicker than snot, as my grandpa used to say.”
Despite the dire circumstances, my grandfather’s quote pulls a genuine laugh from deep in Ryder’s belly.
“We’ll handle whatever comes,” Ryder says a moment later. “Between your veterinary knowledge and…” He pauses, his jaw tightening for a moment before he exhales. “I’ve seen births at the rescue center, but never been the primary. This is your area of expertise.”
The way he says it—open, unthreatened by letting me lead—sends a pang through me. My last boyfriend thought supporting me meant clipping my wings. Ryder makes space without even blinking.
“I want to be a vet, but I’m still an undergrad. I’ve read a lot and was an assistant to an assistant at a vet’s office, but…” I take a deep breath and remind myself of the facts. “Cats have been having kittens for thousands of years without veterinary aid. We just need to be ready in case she needs help.”
“What do you need me to do?”
The question is simple and practical, but the way he asks it—steady, no hesitation, like he’s willing to take orders from me without ego—sends a ripple through my chest I don’t want to name. Attraction? Trust? Maybe both.
“Clean towels, a heating pad hooked up to an extension cord from my bedroom, and mostly just patience. She could be in labor for hours.”
We settle into a routine: tending the fire, keeping Duchess comfortable, trading the thermos of coffee between us like it’s contraband gold. The storm rages, but in the glow of lamplight and firelight, the cabin feels cocooned, almost magical.
When he passes me the thermos, his fingers brush mine—warm, rough, and steady. I take a sip, and the taste of dark coffee mixes with the faint heat of where his mouth has been. My pulse stumbles. It shouldn’t feel intimate, but it does. Like a secret we’ve just shared without saying a word.
And sitting this close to Ryder, sharing warmth and silence, feels even more dangerous than the storm.
