The mint calmed me down. Yes, he'd hurt me, but he'd been hurting himself. I would never forget that he left me behind, but this morning I felt like I could get around to forgiving him.
I tilted my head back. He was fast asleep. His jawline shadowed with stubble. There were deep grooves of stress between his eyes that hadn't been there when he was eighteen.
He looked exhausted.
Dash let out a final slurp and shook off Beck's coat.
Beck groaned and tightened his grip, pulling me closer. "Five more minutes," he grumbled.
"Beck. We need to get going," I whispered.
One of Beckett's eyes cracked open. It was bloodshot. He blinked, focusing on me before looking around the hut, as though reminding himself where he'd spent the night.
He didn't pull away.
"Morning," he rasped.
"Morning."
We stayed like that for a few more seconds. It felt too much like a Sunday morning from fifteen years ago, not a survival situation in a fish hut. I shifted, sliding out from under his arm. "I need to check the door to see if we can get out."
"Right." He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. "The door. I'll check it."
I stood. My hip ached from the hard bench. When I shoved against the plywood door, it didn't budge.
"Out of the way, figure skater." He put his shoulder into it, grunted, and light spilled into the hut as he forced back the pile of snow between us and the outside world. I had to squint against the sudden assault of brightness.
The storm was gone, leaving behind a blanket of white snow and a sky the same blue as Beck's eyes. The world was buried. My truck and his rental car were just two white humps in the distance.
"How bad is it?" I asked.
Beckett stepped outside. "Two feet. Maybe more in the drifts." He picked up his coat from the floor, sniffed it, then put it on.
I couldn't hold in my giggle.
"What?" he smiled. "Your dog doesn't smell that bad. It’s better than your jerky breath."
"Hey." I shoved him. "Says the guy who smells like a dressing room."
He stuck his nose in his armpit and sniffed. "It's a real buffet of smells in here, isn’t it? Should we get some fish guts in the mix too?"
He took his phone from the pocket of his jacket. "I've got one bar. The Chance Rapids weather station has dropped the squall warnings and that plows are on the main highway."
"The highway is five miles that way." I pointed toward the tree-line. "We're stuck until the grader comes down to the lake."
Squinting at his phone, he scrolled through. "Secondary routes will be cleared by noon."
I laughed. "That's optimistic."
"Breakfast?" He lifted the lid of one of the plastic bins.
My coat was still warm from our body heat and it felt like slipping into a warm, slightly stinky, hug. "Unless you have a secret stash of eggs Benedict in your pockets, we're out of luck. Dash ate the rest of the jerky."
"Of course he did." Beckett sighed. "I saw a tin of something on the shelf."
It turned out to be a tin of Danish butter cookies that looked like they'd been there since bell bottoms were in style, and a bottle of whiskey that looked much fresher.
"Breakfast of champions," Beck said when I held them up. Beck chipped away at the last of the instant coffee with a spoon. "Better than nothing."
