"And you?" she asks. "What's happening to you?"
"Your warmth..." I struggle to find words for the unfamiliar sensation. "It reminds me of things long forgotten. Humanity. Connection."
When we finally break contact, something has shifted between us. I can sense her now, a warm presence at the edge of my awareness even when not touching. By her expression—wonder mixed with alarm—she feels something similar.
"That was..." she begins.
"Just the beginning," I finish for her. "The connection will grow stronger with each contact. Or fade with prolonged separation."
She nods, examining her arms where frost patterns had briefly appeared beneath her skin. "I feel different. Colder, but not uncomfortable with it."
"The first change," I confirm. "Your tolerance for cold will increase. You'll notice other effects soon—frost in your breath even in warm rooms, increased awareness of temperature changes, dreams of snow and ice."
"And if I decide this isn't what I want?"
"Stay away long enough, and the changes will reverse. Return to me, and they'll strengthen." I meet her gaze directly. "The choice remains yours."
The distant sound of another helicopter punctuates our conversation, a reminder of the human world that still claimsher. This time, however, it's closer than before—much closer. The search pattern has shifted, bringing the aircraft directly toward our location.
Freya's head snaps up, her body tensing as she listens to the approaching engine. Our eyes meet, and I see the decision crystallize in hers before she speaks it.
"They're close," she whispers. "This could be my chance."
Something twists inside me—sharp, painful, unexpected. The selfish part of me wants to thicken the storm, hide us away for one more night, one more day of her warmth against my cold. But I've lived with selfishness for centuries. Perhaps it's time for something else.
"Yes," I say, the word costing more than she can know. "It is."
Surprise crosses her features. "You'd let me go? Now?"
"I promised I would when you were ready." I move to the window, watching the helicopter's lights flicker through the thinning snowfall. "Are you?"
She hesitates, and in that moment of hesitation, I feel hope—dangerous, foolish hope—that she might choose to stay. But then determination settles over her face.
"Those people are risking their lives to find me," she says. "I can't let them continue searching when I could end it now."
I nod, accepting her choice even as something cold and heavy settles in my chest—colder than any winter I've commanded. With a gesture, I calm the storm further, clearing visibility around the cabin. The helicopter's engine grows louder as it approaches.
"Your story?" I ask.
"I got lost in the storm. Found shelter here. Survived on my emergency supplies." She shrugs. "Simple is believable."
Her eyes meet mine. "Will you leave? They'll want to know whose cabin this is."
"Yes." I glance around the home that has sheltered me for decades. "I have other refuges deeper in the mountains."
She moves quickly then, gathering her camera, her pack, the few belongings she had when the storm claimed her. I watch her efficient movements, memorizing each one, storing away images of her to sustain me through the coming solitude.
When she's ready, dressed in her now-dry thermal gear, pack secured, she pauses at the door. The helicopter sounds are close enough now that they might spot her if she steps outside.
"I don't know how to thank you," she says, voice thick with emotion.
"Live," I tell her simply. "That's enough."
She crosses the space between us, reaching up to touch my face one last time. Frost patterns bloom and fade where her fingers meet my skin. "Will I see you again?"
"That depends on you." I cover her hand with mine. "The connection between us has begun. Whether it strengthens or fades is your choice now."
"And if I want to come back?"
