But here in my cabin, we were warm and safe. Together.
“Just tonight,” I agreed.
Purrsephone chose that moment to insert herself between us, climbing onto the couch and wedging her fluffy body directly into the space where our chests had been pressed together. She turned in a circle twice, kneaded Samuel’s Christmas-plaid-covered thigh with her claws, and settled down with a satisfied purr.
“I think she’s claiming you,” I said.
“I think she’s chaperoning us.” Samuel scratched behind her ears, and her purr intensified. “Making sure we behave ourselves.”
“We were behaving ourselves.”
“Were we?” He looked at me, and there was something warm in his expression, something that made my heart stutter. “Because I was about to kiss you again. Just to be clear.”
“Samuel—”
“I know. Friends. Time. Healing.” He held up his uninjured hand in surrender. “I’m not pushing. I’m just being honest about what I was thinking.”
“That’s very emotionally mature of you.”
“I’m extremely emotionally mature. I went to therapy and everything.”
I laughed—actually laughed, despite everything—and Samuel grinned at me, and Purrsephone purred between us, and for a moment, the storm outside didn’t matter. The destroyed cabin didn’t matter. The uncertain future didn’t matter.
Just tonight.
It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a commitment. But sitting there, with Samuel in my clothes and my cat between us and the fire crackling low, it felt like the beginning of something.
And for the first time since the coat closet, I let myself believe that maybe—maybe—beginning again wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Chapter Thirteen
Samuel
Iwoke up freezing.
For a disorienting moment, I didn’t know where I was. The last thing I remembered was sitting by the fire with Farley, Purrsephone wedged between us, talking about nothing and everything until my eyes started to drift shut. He’d insisted I take the couch, piled me with blankets, and retreated to his bedroom with a soft “goodnight” that had felt like both a gift and a promise.
Now the fire had died down to embers, barely visible in the darkness, and my breath was fogging in the air.
I sat up, pulling the blankets tighter around my shoulders, and tried to get my bearings. The storm was still raging outside—I could hear the wind howling—but inside, everything was quiet and cold. Extremely cold. The type of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you question every life choice that led you to this moment.
The fire. I needed to fix the fire.
I stumbled off the couch, blankets wrapped around me like a cape, and made my way to the fireplace. The embers were still glowing faintly, which was good. I just needed to add wood and stoke them back to life. Easy peasy.
I grabbed a log from the stack beside the hearth and placed it on the embers.
Nothing happened.
I grabbed another log, positioned it differently.
Still nothing.
“Come on,” I muttered, reaching for the poker and trying to stir the embers to life. “Work with me here. I’m Dr. Brock Blaze. I’ve performed brain surgery, delivered triplets and defused a bomb while simultaneously confessing my love to Dr. Vivienne Hart. I can start a fire.”
The embers responded by growing dimmer.
“Okay, that’s not—” I tried a different angle with the poker. Accidentally knocked one of the logs off the pile. Watched, horrified, as a cloud of ash puffed up into my face.
