It wasn’t much, but it was more than I’d expected.I smiled into my mug, filing the answer away like it was something precious.
I tried again.“What about the first snowfall you remember?Mine was when I was five.I thought the world had turned into a snow globe.”
He grunted, the corner of his mouth twitching as if against his will.“First one I remember, I was stuck digging a trench.Snow meant cold rations and frozen hands.Nothing magical about it.”
I should’ve let the subject drop, but that faint flicker of humor—dry, rough-edged—made me brave.“So you’re saying you weren’t the type to catch flakes on your tongue?”
That earned me a glance, sharp at first, but softer when he saw I was teasing.“Not unless I wanted frostbite.”
I laughed, hugging my knees tighter.It was the ghost of a smile, there and gone before I could be sure, but I caught it.And I treasured it.
My eyes wandered to the towering shelves visible through the library door, stacks of books still waiting.“Why so many?”I asked gently.“Why keep all of them?”
He shifted in his chair, shoulders rising, falling.“Because they don’t leave.They don’t lie.”The words were blunt, but beneath them I caught a flicker of something raw.
I swallowed, nodding, treating the answer with the care it deserved.“That makes sense,” I said softly.And it did.More than he realized.
The quiet stretched again, but it wasn’t empty this time.It carried the weight of his clipped replies, his guarded humor, his fleeting almost-smile.
Every small crack he allowed in his armor felt like a gift, fragile as a glass ornament I’d tuck carefully away.I knew better than to press too hard, to risk shattering them.But I couldn’t stop myself from reaching for more, little by little, like stringing lights across a house left dark too long.
He didn’t know it, but every wry remark, every flicker of warmth, every ghost of a smile—I was collecting them.
And one day, I promised myself, I’d string them together into something whole.
The fire had burned low, a steady circle of warmth between us, and sitting so close, I felt the weight of the moment pressing in.The storm still howled against the windows, but inside, it was just him and me, caught together in this fragile pocket of quiet.
I was suddenly hyperaware of everything—the faint brush of his sleeve when I shifted, the low rumble of his voice when he muttered something under his breath, the sheer gravity of his presence.He didn’t just sit in a room; he filled it.The air bent around him, heavy with silence, with scars, with everything he carried and refused to name.
A tiny spark flickered in my chest.Dangerous.Thrilling.I told myself it was gratitude—that I was just thankful for the warmth of the fire, for the small cracks of conversation he’d allowed me.But my heart knew better.Gratitude didn’t make your pulse skip.Gratitude didn’t draw your eyes to the curve of someone’s jaw, the shadows dancing across their face.
I thought of the townsfolk, their voices dripping with fear and suspicion.Beast,they called him.Monster.I thought of Grandma’s warnings, her hand squeezing mine when she told me not to get too close, not to poke at wounds best left alone.
But here, now, watching the firelight soften the lines of his face, I couldn’t see what they saw.He wasn’t a beast.He wasn’t cruel.He was a man—scarred, yes, but not broken.Burdened by pain, but not consumed by it.
I wondered then what it would take to draw him fully out of the shadows he clung to.What it would take to coax the man beneath the armor to step into the light again.
And I wondered, with a thrill I wasn’t ready to admit aloud, if I might be the one to do it.
Chapter8
Charlie
Imoved to the window, needing something to do with my hands before I said something I couldn’t take back.The glass rattled in the frame as the wind howled, pushing snow sideways, white and endless.The world outside had vanished, smothered under a storm that wasn’t letting up anytime soon.
I cursed under my breath.
She’d been working for hours, quiet now, settled near the fire with her notebook in her lap.But sooner or later, she’d stand, wrap her scarf around her neck, and think she could make her way home.And I knew what that would mean.A road swallowed by drifts, a car sliding where the ice ran thick, a girl too stubborn to admit the danger until it was too late.
The thought of it sat heavy in my chest.
But saying it out loud—that was something else.Admitting she couldn’t leave meant admitting she was here, really here, with me.That her presence had seeped into these walls in a way I’d spent years making sure no one’s ever could.
I told myself to let her figure it out.To let her look outside and see the storm for herself.To let her pack her things and try, and maybe when the cold wind slapped her in the face she’d finally understand this wasn’t a place for her.
But when I glanced back, I saw her.
Curled by the fire, her cheeks flushed from the heat, her eyes skimming over her notes with a concentration that looked too at ease in my house.She didn’t flinch at the storm’s roar, didn’t seem eager to escape.And something inside me broke before I could stop it.
