"The storm is calmer today," she observes, glancing toward the window.
"Yes."
"Your doing?"
"Not consciously."
"But related to..." She gestures between us, another flush coloring her cheeks.
"Yes." I see no point in denying it. "My emotions affect the weather. My... contentment... has calmed the storm."
"Contentment," she repeats, a small smile playing at her lips. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Heat that has nothing to do with temperature rises to my face—a reaction I didn't know I was still capable of experiencing. "Among other things."
Her smile widens. "So, theoretically, if you were to become... discontent... the storm would worsen again?"
I narrow my eyes, seeing where her thoughts lead. "The search parties."
"They'll come looking once the weather allows," she says, practical again. "What happens when they find us?"
"They won't." The words emerge more possessive than intended, frost spreading across the table.
She watches the ice form, expression thoughtful rather than frightened. "You can't keep the storm going forever."
"I can try."
"Vidar." She says my name in a way that makes something twist inside me. "You know that's not a solution."
She's right, of course. Even my power has limits. And the longer she remains missing, the more determined the search efforts will become.
"I said I would let you go when the storm ends," I remind her, the words tasting bitter.
"And if I don't want to go?" she asks, voice soft but steady.
The question lands like a physical blow. Ice crystals form in the air around us, suspended in my shock.
"You don't know what you're saying," I manage finally. "The novelty of... this... will fade. You'll want your human life back."
"Maybe," she concedes. "Or maybe what I want is changing."
"You can't stay here indefinitely."
"I'm not suggesting forever," she says. "Just... not yet."
Not yet. Such simple words to offer such unexpected hope. I stand abruptly, needing distance from the emotions her proximity evokes.
"The radio," I say, moving to where it sits on the shelf. "We should check for updates."
She allows the change of subject, watching as I adjust dials. Static resolves into a voice—the search coordinator speaking of improving conditions, of plans to resume searching when the weather allows.
"They'll be able to look again soon," she says, coming to stand beside me. Too close. Not close enough.
"Yes."
"So we have a decision to make."
I turn to face her, finding her standing nearer than expected. Close enough to touch. Close enough that my cold and her warmth create a microclimate between us, frost forming and melting in continuous cycles in the air.
