This was going well. This was going fucking great.
From the living room, Purrsephone made a sound that was unmistakably smug.
Twenty minutes later, we were settled by the fire.
Samuel was wearing my Yale sweatshirt and my Christmas plaid pajama pants, both of which fit him in ways that should have looked ridiculous but instead looked unfairly attractive. I’d made hot cocoa—actual cocoa, heated on the gas stove since the power was still out—and pressed a mug into his uninjured hand.
His other hand was now properly bandaged, courtesy of my first aid kit and an intensity of focus that I usually reserved for line-editing manuscripts. The cut wasn’t deep, but I’d cleaned it and applied antibiotic ointment and wrapped it like I was preparing it for surgery.
“You know,” Samuel said, examining my handiwork, “this is a very thorough bandage for a minor cut.”
“Infection is a real risk.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“It was bleeding.”
“Barely.”
“There was blood. I saw the blood. Blood requires proper wound care.” I was aware that I sounded slightly unhinged. I couldn’t seem to stop. “The mountains are full of bacteria.”
Samuel’s expression softened. “Hey. I’m okay.”
“I know.”
“Farley.” He set down the cocoa and reached over to put his hand on my knee. “I’m okay. The tree missed me. You got there in time, and I’m fine.”
Something in my chest cracked.
“I saw it come down,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I intended. “From my window. I was sitting there, lookingat the storm, and I saw the tree just... fall. And I knew—I knew—it was going toward your cabin, and I thought—”
I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“What did you think?” Samuel asked quietly.
I looked at him—at his damp hair and those ridiculous Christmas pajama pants—and felt every carefully constructed wall I’d built since the coat closet incident start to crumble.
“I thought I might lose you before I ever really had you,” I blurted out, and I couldn’t believe I’d said it.
Samuel’s breath caught.
“And then I ran,” I continued, because apparently the floodgates were open now and I couldn’t stop talking. “I didn’t think about it. I just ran. Into the storm. Because even if we’re just friends, even if I’m too broken to give you what you deserve, the idea of you being hurt—I couldn’t—”
Samuel pulled me into a hug.
It wasn’t like the desperate embrace in his destroyed cabin. This was gentler, more deliberate. His arms wrapped around me, and I let my face press into his shoulder—my shoulder, technically, since he was wearing my sweatshirt—and breathed in the smell of my own soap on someone else’s skin.
“You’re not broken,” Samuel murmured against my hair. “You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know.” His hand moved in slow circles on my back. “But it’s true. And for what it’s worth, I’m not going anywhere.”
I pulled back enough to look at him. “Your life is in LA. Your contract, your show, your—”
“I meant tonight.” He smiled, soft and a little sad. “I’m not going anywhere tonight. And maybe that’s all we need to worry about right now. Just tonight.”
Outside, the storm continued to rage. The wind howled, and I saw snow whipping past the windows in the firelight.Somewhere in the darkness, Samuel’s cabin sat destroyed, a tree through its wall, everything he’d brought with him buried under debris and ice.
