Caleb looks around, teeth chattering behind his mask. “I should’ve kept running,” he mutters. “I would’ve won.”
I chuckle, kicking the snow from my boots. “But you stopped. Why?”
He frowns, glancing down at his knee. “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t bleeding.”
That makes me grimace. “I’m sorry, baby. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think that you’d get hurt.”
“You couldn’t predict that I would trip,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, but the corners of his eyes crinkle when he says it. He’s trying to keep it light, even though he’s shivering hard enough to cause an earthquake.
“Still.”
I cross the small room, kneel by the old wood stove, and start stacking kindling from the box beside it. The match flares bright in the dim light, and the smell of sulfur fills the air before the fire catches. A few minutes later, the first snap of heat blooms through the space.
When I turn, Caleb’s standing in the center of the room, staring at me. His lashes are clumped with melted snow, and his cheeks are flushed red from the cold. There’s something raw about him like this—stripped down, trembling, breath fogging.
Too pretty for his own good.
“Take that off,” I say quietly, nodding toward his coat.
He hesitates, teeth catching his lower lip. “It’s cold.”
“I’ll fix that.”
I stand and walk to him, undoing the zipper myself when his fingers won’t cooperate. The coat falls heavily to the floor. Then the gloves. Then the balaclava. His hair’s damp, sticking up in all directions. I tug it gently, forcing his gaze up to mine.
“I’m—I’m cold, Miggy,” he murmurs, voice small, a whisper meant just for me.
“I’ll warm you up, baby. Don’t worry.”
The sound that leaves him isn’t quite a sigh—it’s closer to surrender. He lets me strip away his layers one by one until he’s left in just the thin base layer shirt clinging to his chest and thebase pants tucked into his socks. His skin’s hot where I touch him, almost feverish from the contrast.
I shed my gloves, then my own coat, my breath fogging between us. “Bed,” I tell him, nodding toward the daybed tucked against the wall.
He climbs onto it clumsily, legs half tangled in the blanket, still shivering. I pull the covers back and gesture for him to lie down.
“What about you?” he asks, voice muffled.
“The best way to get warm,” I say, stripping down to my base layer and sliding in behind him, “is skin-to-skin contact.”
He lets out a weak laugh. “That’s actual science, huh?”
“Mm. You can look it up later.”
The bed’s small enough that we have no choice but to press together. His back fits perfectly against my chest. I pull the covers up over us, cocooning us in a small pocket of heat. The fire crackles. Under the covers, I pull my shirt up and then his. Caleb’s skin is ice cold in places, burning in others. I press my palms flat to his stomach, slow and steady, letting my warmth sink into him. His breathing evens out a little, but the tremor in his voice gives him away.
“You trying to cop a feel, or is this all still in the name of science?”
I nudge my nose into his damp hair, my voice dropping. “Little of both.”
He laughs softly, a sound that vibrates through us. “Just don’t let me freeze to death.”
“I would never.” I shift closer until my chest is molded to his back, my legs tangled with his. The rhythm of his breathing steadies under my touch. Slowly, the shaking fades.
“Better?” I murmur against his ear.
“Yeah.” His voice is softer now, drowsy, his body finally relaxing. “Much better.”
The firelight from the stove paints a faint orange glow across his face, catching the shadows of his lashes and the curve of his mouth. My heart clenches painfully in my chest.
