She freezes, breath catching. Her face is inches from mine. Snowflakes cling to her lashes, melting slowly.
“You really shouldn’t be out here without traction,” I say, voice low.
“I needed a measurement of the porch overhang,” she whispers.
“Could’ve asked.”
“You were busy.”
“I wasn’t that busy.”
Her eyes lift to mine, something bright and curious there, something warm enough to cut the cold straight through.
I let go first.
Her breath fogs in the air. “Okay. Good note. Calder thinks I’m not allowed outside alone.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“You almost ate a pine tree.”
She snorts a laugh, cheeks warming even in the cold. “Fair.”
She glances back at the cabin, her expression softening. “Your place is really lovely, you know.”
“It’s functional.”
“It’s lovely,” she insists, tone gentler now. “You built a life up here. You should be proud of it.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all.
I crouch for the wood, but she beats me to it, grabbing a log and holding it awkwardly in both hands.
“I can help,” she insists.
“You’re going to drop that.”
“I am not.”
The log slips immediately. She fumbles it. I catch it before it hits her foot. She looks up from the rescued chunk of pine with a mortified little wince.
“…Okay. Maybe I am.”
I sigh, shove the rescued wood under one arm, and take her elbow with the other. “Come on. Before you get hurt.”
She lets me guide her back toward the cabin. Our strides sync up without trying. Her shoulder brushes mine. She smells like cold air and vanilla lotion and something warm I can’t name.
Inside, the stove crackles, a pocket of heat waiting for us.
She peels off her coat and shakes out her hair, sending a few snowflakes scattering. They melt instantly on the rug.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.” She beams again, and God help me, I feel it somewhere stupid and vulnerable.
She focuses on her clipboard. “So. Now that you’re back—logistics.”
