I turn off the shower and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist. Wiping the steam from the mirror, I stare at my reflection. “You’re in trouble, buddy,” I tell myself, shaking my head. Thank fuck my bathroom is all the way on the other side of the duplex.
* * *
Morning arrives with the soft glow of winter sunlight filtering through my bedroom window. I’m still groggy, my mind clouded with fragments of dreams I’d rather not analyze too closely. The memory of last night’s shower makes my cheeks warm despite the morning chill.
A mechanical scraping sound from outside draws my attention. I push myself up and peer through the frost-edged window. My heart does that annoying flutter when I spot Caspian in his driveway, wielding a snow shovel that looks too big for him.
He’s drowning in my oversized winter coat. It would be comical if it wasn’t so endearing. He’s clearly struggling, stopping every few shovelfuls to catch his breath, his exhales visible in the crisp morning air.
“Dammit,” I mutter, already reaching for my clothes. Something inside me crumbles as I watch him tackle the heavy snow with determined but inefficient movements. He’s going to hurt himself at this rate.
Five minutes later, I’m outside, my own shovel in hand. “You’re doing it wrong,” I call out, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the warmth spreading through my chest at the way his face lights up when he sees me.
“There’s a wrong way to shovel snow?” He stops, leaning on his shovel with a grin far too bright for this early hour. “Please, oh wise Vermont native, enlighten me.”
I move closer, ignoring the way my heart rate picks up. “You’re going to throw out your back lifting that much at once. Smaller scoops, push more than lift.”
“Like this?” He demonstrates, and I have to bite back a laugh at his exaggerated form.
“Here,” I say, stepping behind him before I can think better of it. “Let me show you.” My hands cover his on the shovel handle, and I guide him through the proper motion. “See? Less strain on your back this way.”
He’s warm against my chest, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we are.
CHAPTER 12
CASPIAN
My breath catches in my throat as Nate’s solid warmth presses against my back. His hands envelop mine on the shovel handle, and suddenly, clearing snow is the last thing on my mind. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact between us—his chest against my shoulders, his arms along mine, his breath tickling my ear.
“Like this,” he murmurs, guiding me through the motion. “Push forward, don’t try to lift too much at once.”
I try to focus on his instructions, but it’s nearly impossible with him so close. His voice rumbles through his chest and vibrates against my back. The winter air is crisp and cold, but I’m burning up inside my borrowed coat.
“Got it?” he asks, and I realize I haven’t moved or spoken in several seconds.
“Um, maybe show me one more time?” I manage to say, not ready to lose this proximity. “Just to make sure I’ve got the technique right.”
His soft chuckle sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the cold. “Sure,” he says, and we go through the motion again. This time, I actually pay attention to how to angle the shovel and push the snow aside rather than lifting it.
“See? Much easier on your back,” he says, but he doesn’t step away. If anything, his grip on my hands tightens slightly.
“Yeah,” I breathe, barely trusting my voice. “Much easier.”
The early morning sun catches the snow around us, making it sparkle like diamonds. Everything feels suspended in this moment—the crisp air, the sound of our breathing, the warmth between us.
“Caspian,” Nate says softly, and something in his tone makes my heart stutter.
I turn my head slightly, and suddenly, his face is right there, inches from mine. His blue eyes are intense, focused entirely on me, and I watch as his gaze drops to my lips.
The tension between us is electric, crackling like static in the winter air. I want to turn fully in his arms, to close that final distance between us. His breath mingles with mine, creating little clouds in the cold morning air.
“We probably shouldn’t,” Nate whispers, but he doesn’t move away.
“Probably not,” I agree, even as I lean slightly closer. “It would complicate things.”
“We’re neighbors.”
“And friends,” I add, though the word feels inadequate for the energy buzzing between us.
