We watch as he gets in his truck and drives away, his taillights disappearing into the white landscape. When he's gone, Chase turns to me.
"You ready?"
"Yeah." I climb back into the side-by-side, but this time when the cold wind whips around us, I don't mind it as much. I'm thinking about six more weeks, about the way my stomach shifted when Eli said those words.
The ride back seems shorter than the ride out. Maybe it's because I know what's waiting for us—the warm cabin, the crackling fire, the sense of safety I've found there, and Biscuit. Or maybe it's because I'm hyper-aware of Chase beside me, the strong line of his shoulders, the capable way he handles the vehicle over the rough terrain. The way his hands grip the steering wheel.
When we pull up to the cabin, the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, painting everything in shades of orange and pink. It's beautiful, which makes my throat tight. I almost missed all of this. I want to remember this moment, this exact second, when everything feels possible.
"Let's get this stuff inside," Chase says, already grabbing boxes. "Another storm is supposed to hit in a few hours."
We work together, creating an assembly line. He hands me boxes and bags from the side-by-side, and I carry them into the cabin, stacking them in the kitchen and living room. It takes probably twenty minutes to get everything inside, and by the time we're done, I'm breathing hard and my arms are aching.
"Damn," I say, looking at the pile of supplies. "This really is six weeks' worth."
"Maybe more if we're careful." Chase starts organizing things, his movements showing he's used to doing this. "Perishables will go in the fridge and freezer. Everything else we can store in the pantry."
I watch him for a moment, this man who saved me, who's given me space and safety and a chance to breathe. Then I shake myself and start helping, putting away canned goods while he deals with the meat.
We fall into an easy rhythm. He's in charge of the heavy stuff, the frozen items that need to go in the chest freezer. I handle the pantry, arranging things so we can find them easily. The vegetables go in the crisper drawer, the fresh bread in a container on the counter. It makes me think about my apartment, and how I lived previously. There was never this kind of organization in my life before, and maybe that was part of why I fell under Stanley's spell.
"You ever think about how much planning goes into being snowed in?" I ask, putting away the last of the pasta. "I mean, before this, I would've just assumed you could always get out if you needed to. If someone were to ask me."
"Most people do." Chase closes the freezer door. "But out here, you have to think ahead. Have to be prepared. One storm can turn into three, and before you know it, you're stuck for weeks."
"Doesn't that scare you?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. "Used to. When I first moved out here, every storm made me nervous. What if something went wrong? What if I got hurt? But over time, I learned to respect the land, work with it instead of against it. Now it's just part of life."
I think about that—learning to work with what scares you instead of running from it. Maybe that's what I'm doing here, in a way. Learning to face the thing I was so desperate to escape.
"Hand me those cans?" I gesture to the shelf above me, and he reaches up easily, his arm brushing mine as he passes them down. The touch is brief, but it sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
We finish putting everything away as the light outside fades. Chase builds up the fire while I make coffee, and when we finally settle onto the couch, there's a sense of accomplishment I feel that I've never had before. Here I'm part of a team. We did this together, prepared for what's coming, and there wasn't any arguing, blaming, or one person doing most of the work.
"That was your last chance," Chase says after a while, his voice quiet. "Eli could've taken you back to town, gotten you out before the storms hit. But now, with these supplies, with what's coming..." He trails off, looking at me. "You're stuck here for a while. I hope you made the right decision."
The words should scare me. Should make me panic, feel trapped. But instead, all I feel is that same sense of peace that's been following me since we left this morning.
"I did," I say, and I know it's true. I made the right decision.
Electricity and attraction passes between us. I can see his chest rise and fall with his breathing, can see the way his hands flex like he wants to reach for me but won't let himself.
Before I can talk myself out of it, before fear or doubt or common sense can stop me, I lean in and kiss him.
It's not graceful. I haven't kissed anyone in far too long. Our noses bump and I nearly miss his mouth entirely, but then his hand comes up to cup my jaw, steadying me, and everything clicks into place. His lips are warm and soft, moving against mine with a gentleness that makes my heart ache. He tastes like coffee and something uniquely him, and I want more.
I pull back after a moment, my eyes still closed, my heart hammering in my chest. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have…"
"Paisley." His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and I open my eyes to find him looking at me with an intensity that steals my breath. "Don't apologize."
"But I?—"
"I've wanted to kiss you since that first night," he says, and the confession hangs between us like a promise. "Since I brought you here and you looked at me like I was some kind of hero. I'm not a hero, Paisley. I'm just a man who couldn't let you hurt yourself."
My throat is tight with emotion. "You are a hero. You saved me."
"Maybe." His hand is still on my face, his touch impossibly gentle. "Or maybe you've started to save me right back."
