She does, immediately, tugging off her gloves with stiff fingers and rubbing her hands together. Her fingers are pink from the cold, the tips almost white. I hang her coat on the hook by thedoor and notice how damp the shoulders are already, how snow has melted into the fabric.
Another ten minutes outside and she would've been soaked through.
I grab a thick, wool blanket from the back of the couch and hand it to her without a word. She wraps it around herself with a quiet sigh that does something unpleasant to my focus, something that makes me too aware of the small space we're sharing.
"Thank you," she says, looking up at me through those fogged glasses. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."
"I suspect you bring a little trouble with you wherever you go,” I mutter.
She smiles at that, like she's been told that before and has made peace with it.
I pour hot water into a mug from the kettle I keep on the stove and add a peppermint tea bag without thinking too hard about why I'm bothering with hospitality. When I hand it to her, her fingers brush mine, light and brief, but it sends a sharp awareness through my chest that I wasn't prepared for.
I step back immediately.
She looks up at me, eyes searching, and I wonder if she felt it too. The firelight catches in her hair, turning the dark strands almost copper at the edges.
"How long am I stuck?" she asks.
I glance toward the window. Snow batters the glass in thick, steady waves. The wind is strong enough now that I can hear the trees groaning outside. "A while."
She nods, accepting it with surprising calm. No panic. No demands to call someone or find another way down. "Okay."
I turn back to my workbench, picking up the wreath I'd been assembling before she arrived. Pine needles crunch softlybeneath my fingers as I twist wire into place, trying to remember why I value quiet so much when the silence now feels too loud.
Behind me, she sips her tea. I can hear the small sounds she makes—the blanket shifting, the mug being set down on the arm of the chair, her breath evening out as the warmth seeps into her.
"You really make all of these yourself?" she asks after a moment.
"Yes."
"All by hand?"
"Yes."
She hums, impressed. "That explains the hype."
I don't respond. Compliments are slippery things. Best not to grab hold. I've learned that the hard way over the years.
After a moment, she says, "I can place the order now, if you want. Before I forget what I came for."
I pause, wire held mid-twist. "You're serious?"
"Very." Her voice is steady, no-nonsense despite the unusual circumstances. "I didn't drive all this way to window-shop."
I turn to look at her. She's curled into the chair, wrapped in my blanket like it's always been hers, steam from her peppermint tea fogging her glasses slightly. Snow taps the window behind her like a reminder that neither of us is going anywhere, that the mountain has made this decision for us.
"How many?" I ask.
"All you can spare," she says without hesitation. "I'll make it work. Whatever you have, I'll take."
Something tightens in my chest at that. The certainty. The trust that I'll deliver quality, not quantity.
"I don't rush my work," I tell her.
"I wouldn't ask you to."
I study her for a long moment, weighing my options, the storm, and the way she fits into my space like she was always meant to be here.
