I nod, impressed by her quick strategic thinking. "A plausible explanation for your survival."
"And later, I could return. For work—photographing the area through different seasons. No one would question a photographer making regular trips to capture the same location over time."
The plan forms between us, practical yet fragile, a bridge between her world and mine. But a more immediate concern presses on me as I sense another aircraft approaching, this one flying lower, its search pattern more focused.
"They're getting closer," I say, moving to the window again. "The weather is clearing despite my efforts. They'll expand the search area with improved visibility."
Freya joins me, watching the thinning snowfall. "How much time do we have?"
"A day, perhaps two, before they come close enough to find this place." I turn to her. "You need to decide soon."
"Decide what? Whether to strengthen the bond?"
"Whether to let them find you here, or create the story at the other cabin." I meet her gaze directly. "The choice affects everything that follows."
She paces the small space, conflict evident in her expression. "Every hour I stay hidden, those search teams are out there risking their lives. Hypothermia, avalanches, accidents... people could die looking for me."
"I've calmed the storm," I remind her, "as you asked."
"It's still dangerous terrain, even in good weather." She runs a hand through her hair, a gesture I've come to recognize as signaling internal struggle. "I can't have someone's death on my conscience because I wanted to... to explore whatever this is between us."
The human capacity for moral concern continues to surprise me, even after centuries of observation. My own conscience has grown distant, cold as the winters I command. Yet her words awaken something long dormant—responsibility toward those beyond my immediate concerns.
"Then we don't wait," I decide. "Tomorrow at first light, I take you to the other cabin."
Relief crosses her features, though tinged with something like disappointment. She steps closer, her hand finding mine. Where our fingers intertwine, frost patterns form but do not spread—contained, balanced. "I want to understand this. What's happening between us. But I also need to return to my life, at least for now."
"Then we prepare." I squeeze her hand gently. "Tonight, we strengthen the bond enough that you can find your way backto me. Tomorrow, I take you to the other cabin and create a survival scenario the searchers will believe."
"And after that?"
"After that, you decide. Each time you return, the bond strengthens. Each time you stay away, it weakens. The choice remains yours."
She studies our joined hands, where frost swirls in delicate patterns across our skin. "It's already changing me, isn't it? I can feel it."
I nod, seeing the subtle signs myself—the slight blue undertone to her lips that isn't from cold, the way her breath sometimes mists even inside the warm cabin, the frost patterns lasting longer on her skin with each encounter.
"Yes," I admit. "It began the moment you survived my touch."
"I want to understand," she says suddenly. "Show me how this connection works. I want to know exactly what I'm choosing."
I hesitate, aware of the responsibility her request places on me. "Once certain changes begin, they're not easily reversed."
"I understand." Her voice is steady, her gaze unwavering. "Show me anyway."
Decision made, I lead her to the bed, sitting across from her with our knees touching. "Give me your hands."
She places her palms against mine without hesitation. The contact sends ripples of warmth through my cold flesh, a sensation both foreign and increasingly addictive.
"Focus on the cold where our hands meet," I explain. "Don't resist it. See what happens when you welcome it instead."
Her eyes close in concentration. Beneath my palms, I feel her skin cooling, not from external cold but from within—her body adapting, accepting the winter essence I carry.
Frost patterns form where we touch, but unlike before, they don't remain on the surface. They sink beneath her skin, becoming part of her rather than decorating her. At the sametime, warmth travels from her into me, following veins and arteries like rivers of heat through my glacial form.
A gasp escapes her as the sensation intensifies. Her eyes fly open, pupils dilated. "I can feel it. Like ice in my blood, but it doesn't hurt."
"This is just the beginning," I tell her, watching frost patterns shimmer beneath her skin before fading from view. "A winter affinity. Invisible to others, but present now."
