“I’m sorry?—”
“Not yet.” He goes to the kitchen. Water runs, mugs clatter, and the kettle hisses. He comes back with a compact emergency kit containing gauze, glucose, and instant heat packs. He doesn’t read the labels. His hands move like a checklist. He cracks then tucks a heat pack at my palms and another at my neck.
He crouches and slips a digital thermometer under my tongue. The world narrows to his steady hands and the tick of plastic against my lip. The readout chirps. “Ninety-six point two.”
Cole kneels to unlace my boots. He makes another trip to the kitchen.
“Sip.” A mug appears in my hands. Steam, cinnamon, and the first bite of warmth. “Small sips. Slow.”
Heat stings my mouth before it soaks in. Pins and needles wake my fingers.
“You scared me.” He doesn’t look up. “I don’t like being scared.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Save sorry for later.” He motions for my socks. “Warm first.”
He rubs my hands between his, watching color creep back into my white knuckles. When he looks up, the clinical edges soften.
“Next time, you call me.” His voice is firm. “You wait for me. I will come get you.”
“That’s not?—”
“It is now.” His thumb traces a slow line over my wrist, checking my pulse, staking a claim. “A decision like this deserves care.”
I nod, heat blooming beneath my skin that has nothing to do with the mug.
“Good?” His forehead tips to mine, a question without pressure.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He sits beside me and pulls me against him, sharing body heat. His heart hammers under my ear.
We stay like that until I stop shaking and warmth creeps back into my fingers and toes. His heart slows as my body returns to normal.
“Better?” he asks finally.
“Yeah. Much better.”
“Good.” He reaches beside the chair and picks up my wet, snow-covered duffel bag. At least it’s intact. “I got your grandmother’s recipes. They’re safe.”
Tears fill my eyes. “You went out in that storm for a bag of recipes.”
“No. I went out in that storm for you. For what matters to you.” He sets the bag on the table. “That’s what you do when you care about someone.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome. Now don’t ever scare me like that again.”
“I was scared. You didn’t wake me, and I thought?—”
“I know. But Holly, you could’ve died out there. Five more minutes and you would’ve been hypothermic. Ten and I might not have found you in time.”
The reality slams into me. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. But you have to promise me that if anything like this happens again, you’ll wait. You trust me to come back. Because I will. Always. But I can’t do my job if I’m worried about you being out there too.”
“Your job?”
