"You take the bed. I'll remain here."
"You said the storm will last three days. You can't just stand there for three days."
"I can."
She sighs, a surprisingly human sound of exasperation. "That's not what I meant. I meant you shouldn't have to."
The concern is unexpected. Humans typically worry only for themselves when in danger. Yet here she is, considering my comfort when I'm clearly the more dangerous being in this cabin.
"The bed is large enough," she continues, words coming faster now, betraying nervousness despite her practical tone. "We can share it. Just to sleep. It's only logical, given the situation."
Logical is the last word I would use for what she suggests. Dangerous, reckless, tempting—these fit better. Yet I find myself considering it. The pull between us grows stronger with proximity, a current I neither understand nor can fully resist.
"You would share your sleeping space with a stranger?" I ask, testing her resolve.
She meets my gaze directly. "I'd share it with whoever saved my life."
Simple words, yet they strike somewhere deep, a place long frozen. The gratitude again, freely given despite her fear. Despite what she's seen.
"Very well," I concede. "But I must warn you—my presence brings cold. The fire's heat only counteracts it partially."
"I've got furs," she says with a small shrug. "And I'd rather be a little cold than have you looming in the corner all night like something from a gothic novel."
There's that hint of humor again, unexpected and oddly disarming. I'm unaccustomed to being teased, to the light in her eyes that accompanies it.
She arranges the furs on the bed, creating a clear division down the center. A boundary between her world and mine. Unnecessary—I have no intention of crossing it—but the gesture speaks to her need for control in an uncontrollable situation.
"I'll extinguish the lamps," I say, moving to do so.
"Leave one," she requests. "Just dimmed."
Fear of the dark? No, something else. She wants to see what's in the room with her. Sensible precaution.
I reduce the flame in one lamp to a faint glow, then stand awkwardly beside the bed. She's already slipped beneath the furs on her side, face partly hidden in shadow.
"I promise not to snore," she says, another attempt at lightening the strange tension between us.
I remove my boots but nothing else, lying stiffly atop the furs rather than beneath them. The bed, unused for decades before today, feels strange beneath me. Too soft, too warm, too intimate. I position myself at the edge, maintaining maximum distance between us.
"Goodnight, Vidar," she says softly.
My name in her mouth sounds different. Newer. More alive.
"Rest well, Freya."
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the crackle of dying embers and the howl of my storm beyond the walls. Her breathing gradually steadies but doesn't deepen into sleep. She remains awake, aware, her mind working through the impossibility of her situation.
Frost forms on my side of the bed, spreading in delicate patterns across the furs. I can't stop it entirely, not with her so close. Her warmth calls to something in me, awakens hunger I'd forgotten could exist.
"Your side is sparkling," she murmurs, voice heavy with approaching sleep.
"I warned you about the cold."
"It's beautiful," she says, and then her breathing finally slows into the rhythm of slumber.
Beautiful. The cold that kills, that nearly took her life hours ago. The frost that speaks of my inhuman nature. She finds it beautiful.
I lie motionless beside her sleeping form, listening to her heartbeat, feeling the weight of her trust in choosing to rest beside a monster. Outside, my storm rages on, but here in this small space, something else builds—something I have no name for, something that terrifies me more than any enemy I've faced in five centuries of existence.
