I don’t have my phone, so I can’t check the time. I can only watch the light change outside the windows, the gray morning brightening slightly before beginning to fade again.
Where is he?
I hate that I’m wondering. I hate that some small part of me is worried about him out there in the storm. He’s a bear shifter. He’s fine. He’s probably more comfortable in the cold than he is in this cabin.
But still.
The afternoon stretches into evening. My stomach growls again and I find leftovers in the refrigerator, his mother’s food, enough to make myself a small dinner. I eat standing at the counter, watching the window, waiting.
The sun sets. The cabin grows dark except for the fire’s glow.
And then I hear it.
The front door opening. Heavy footsteps stomping snowoff boots. The rush of cold air that means someone’s come in from outside.
He’s back.
I freeze on the couch, heart pounding. Should I run to my room? Lock the door? Pretend I’m asleep?
But my body won’t move. I’m rooted to this spot, watching the entryway, waiting to see what version of him walks through.
He appears in the doorway, and the sight of him takes me off guard.
He’s covered in snow. It clings to his beard, his hair, the shoulders of his heavy coat. His eyes are dark and tired. He looks like he’s been out there for hours. Like he’s been working himself to exhaustion.
He sees me on the couch and stops.
We stare at each other across the room. Neither of us speaks.
I should be afraid. After last night, I should be terrified of him. And part of me is. Part of me remembers the gold bleeding into his eyes, the sound of metal screaming as he ripped my car apart, the helplessness of being thrown over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.
But there’s another feeling too. One I refuse to name.
A pull.
Like there’s an invisible thread connecting us, tugging me toward him even as my brain screams to run away. I felt it yesterday when he looked at me in the kitchen. I felt it last night when he set me down in his chair. And I feel it now, stronger than ever, this gravity drawing me to a man I should hate.
I want to turn it off. I want to cut the thread and be free of whatever this is.
But I don’t know how.
“Where’s my car?” The words come out harder than I intend.
He doesn’t flinch. “Somewhere it can be fixed.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.” He shrugs off his coat and hangs it by the door, not meeting my eyes. “It’ll be ready when the storm clears.”
I stare at him, waiting for more. He doesn’t offer it.
“You can’t just take my car and not tell me where it is.”
“I didn’t take it.” He finally looks at me, and the look on his face stops me cold. “I’m fixing what I broke.”
The words catch me off guard. Not an apology exactly, but an acknowledgment. He broke it. He’s fixing it.
I don’t know what to say to that.
