“You’re good,” I say, way too quickly. “Totally fine. Professional couch lifting.”
His eyes flick to mine, warm at the edges.
Something hums between us.
Something quiet yet powerful.
Something neither of us have named. Yet.
As the day stretches on, we fall into an easy rhythm.
I take inventory of candles, ribbons, hooks, leftover decor from past holidays. Calder checks the generator again, finds his supply of extension cords, and repairs a loose hinge on the pantry door.
We talk more than I expected. We laugh more than I hoped.
And every time he looks at me a moment longer than necessary, my stomach does a slow somersault.
By early afternoon, clouds roll back in.
The next storm is coming.
Calder notices it first. He stands by the window, jaw tightening.
“Those clouds aren’t good,” he murmurs.
I join him, peering out. The sky is darker, heavier, the bright winter morning giving way to something wilder.
“Is it going to be bad?” I ask.
“Not as bad as yesterday,” he says. “But strong enough to bury the roads again.”
“So we’re staying put.”
“Yeah. We should plan for at least another full day up here.”
A full day with him. Alone. In this cabin. With a tree and a fire and absolutely no distractions.
My pulse leaps.
He notices. Of course he notices.
His voice drops. “You okay with that?”
“Yes,” I say—much too fast. “I mean. Yes. It’s fine. Great. Cozy.”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “Cozy.”
“Very cozy,” I insist, then want to sink into the floorboards.
He turns back to the window, but not before I catch the faintest grin cracking through the rough exterior.
Calder does not smile easily.
But he’s smiling now.
Because of me.
The realization does something embarrassing to my heart.
