Nia’s hand emerged from the blanket, resting lightly on the edge of the hearth. “You don’t have to fix everything tonight.”
Soren tilted her head. “Old habits.”
“I noticed,” Nia said, a teasing note slipping in. “You don’t sit still well.”
“Neither do you, Doc.”
Their eyes met again, something quiet passing between them—shared exhaustion, mutual understanding, a pull that neither of them wanted to name.
Soren reached for the candle, adjusting it so the wax wouldn’t drip onto the rug. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
When she returned ten minutes later, the lodge was dark except for the faint light spilling from this room. Nia hadn’t moved. The fire had burned lower, painting her in red-gold glow.
Soren closed the door against the wind and sat down beside her on the rug, the floor warm beneath them. “Generator’s gone for good tonight,” she said. “It’s just us and the storm.”
Nia looked at her then, a small, tired smile tugging at her mouth. “There are worse things.”
Soren felt that smile settle somewhere deep, warm, and dangerous. She leaned back against the couch, their shoulders almost touching, and let the silence wrap around them.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the only light was the fire and the steady flame between them.
The wind outside had quieted into a steady sigh, a soft, constant exhale against the windows. The world beyond theglass was erased—just white and shadow and silence. Inside, the fire snapped and whispered, throwing shifting gold across the lounge.
Soren sat on the floor beside Nia, one knee drawn up, shoulder almost brushing hers. The warmth from the flames made her skin hum; so did the closeness. Every time Nia shifted, her blanket brushed Soren’s arm. Every time she breathed, Soren could smell her—clean, faintly floral, threaded through with smoke from the fire.
Neither of them had spoken in several minutes. It wasn’t an awkward silence, just thick and alive, the kind that made words feel too loud. Soren tipped her head toward Nia and tried to sound casual.
“Snow like this’ll bury us for a few days,” she said. “You ready to be trapped with me that long?”
Nia gave her a sidelong look. “You make that sound like a threat.”
“Only if you hate small talk.”
“I prefer silence.”
“Good,” Soren said, smiling. “We’re halfway compatible already.”
That coaxed the faintest curve of a smile from Nia before she turned back to the fire. The light caught in her green eyes, and for the first time since they’d met, Soren saw something other than restraint there. Something soft. Tired. Human.
“You really never stop fixing things, do you?” Nia asked quietly.
Soren gave a half shrug. “Can’t. Comes from my mom. She could never let something stay broken. Car engines, toys, hearts. You name it.”
“You mentioned her before,” Nia said. “You said she taught you everything.”
“Pretty much.” Soren’s smile was gentle but sad. “She ran a workshop down by the ridge. The kind of place that smelled like oil and cedar. People would bring her everything—tractors, heaters, clocks. She’d patch them up and send them home like new. I used to think she was magic.”
Nia watched her carefully. “She sounds remarkable.”
“She was.” Soren let the firelight blur for a moment before continuing. “When she got sick, I thought if I just worked hard enough, learned enough, I could fix that too. Like there had to be a tool for everything, even for keeping someone alive.” She swallowed. “Turns out, that’s not how it works.”
Nia’s voice softened. “No, it isn’t.”
“It doesn’t stop me thinking I should’ve done more.” Soren gave a humorless laugh. “So now I fix what I can. Pipes. Shelves. Anything that holds still long enough.”
“You turned survival into a skill,” Nia said, more to herself than to Soren.
Soren looked at her, studying the careful way she held herself even now—spine straight, chin high, blanket clutched like a shield. “We both did, didn’t we?”
