“I promise,” he murmurs, “I won’t let anything get you.”
This time, the heat that rushes through me has nothing to do with fear. And everything to do with him.
SIX
CALDER
The storm settles into a steady white curtain. The generator’s still out of commission, the power lines still dead, and the cabin is running entirely on firelight and whatever warmth the stove can muster.
And Natalie is everywhere.
She’s kneeling by the window, jotting measurements. She’s humming under her breath in the kitchen while reorganizing my cabinets.
She’s perched on the arm of the couch, legs tucked under her, sketching some kind of holiday layout diagram I don’t understand but definitely trust.
There’s an energy in the space I’m not used to—bright, warm, alive. It’s unsettling.
And addictive.
I’m pretending to sort tools near the woodpile just to give her space, which is ridiculous for two reasons:
One, she doesn’t need space.
Two, I’m not actually sorting anything. I’m just staring at a hammer and remembering what it felt like to catch her this morning.
Her waist under my hands.
Her breath catching.
Her eyes going wide and soft at the same time.
I need a distraction. A physical one.
“I’m going to split more wood,” I announce, louder than necessary.
She looks up from her sketchpad. “But the pile outside is already full, right?”
“Yep.”
“Then why do you need to split more?”
I grab my gloves. “Because staying prepared is important.”
Her eyes narrow. “This feels like code for ‘I need to go chop something so I don’t think about feelings.’”
“I don’t use ‘code.’”
“You absolutely do.”
I ignore her and open the door, stepping out onto the porch. The cold hits instantly—sharp enough to sting the lungs. Snow clings to the railing, drifting in soft piles against the steps. The storm is quieter now, less wind, more steady fall.
I grab a log round, set it upright on the stump, and raise the axe.
The first swing lands hard, cracking through wood with a clean heart-splitting sound.
Somewhere behind me, the door opens.
I pause mid-swing, not turning.
