I take a slow step toward her—just one—enough to let her know I’m here, I’m listening, and I’m done pretending everything between us is strictly professional.
“You don’t need to fill every silence,” I say softly.
Her lips part. “I… know.”
“You can slow down.”
She swallows hard. “If I slow down, I’ll think.”
“And if you think…?”
She lifts her eyes slowly. Her voice is barely a whisper. “I’ll feel.”
Yeah. I know the problem.
Because I’m feeling too. More than I should.
Before either of us pushes the moment further, the wind howls against the cabin wall, shaking loose a thin cascade of snow from the eaves. Natalie jumps again, just slightly.
I step in—close enough for her to feel me but not touching, giving her the choice.
She breathes in slowly, steadying.
“I’m okay,” she says.
“I know,” I murmur. “But it’s allowed to rattle you.”
She lets out a small laugh. “You’re not helping me stay objective.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Silence stretches—warm, charged, inevitable.
Then she looks down at her clipboard as if remembering it exists. “We should finish prepping dinner. Your family will be hungry tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say, stepping back even though my whole body argues the decision. “Dinner.”
She exhales shakily, breaking the tension with practiced skill. “We make a good team.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We do.”
She smiles—soft, warm, tired. My heart hitches.
The evening settles into a steady rhythm: chopping vegetables, stirring soup, prepping breakfast casseroles for tomorrow. She moves around my kitchen like she’s memorized the space, humming again under her breath.
I catch myself watching her more than once.
The steady sway of her hair.
The shape of her hands.
The curve of her mouth when she’s concentrating.
By the time the soup simmers, she’s leaning against the counter, rubbing her arms.
“Tired?” I ask.
“A little.” She smiles. “Feels like the calm before the chaos.”
