I shouldn't like it this much. Shouldn't feel this surge of satisfaction at seeing her wrapped in fabric that smells like me, that's been against my skin.
But discipline and want are two different animals, and right now want is winning.
"Better?" My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
She nods, smoothing her palms down the flannel in a gesture that draws my attention to the way the shirt can't quite hide her body underneath. "Much warmer. Thank you."
I've been pacing for the past hour like a caged predator, hyperaware of every sound she makes—the whisper of her socked feet on the wooden floor, the soft intake of breath when she discovers something new about my space, the way she hums under her breath when she thinks I'm not listening.
My cabin has never felt smaller.
The storm has backed off to steady snowfall, and weak afternoon light filters through the windows. Time to move. Time to get her out of this enclosed space before I forget she's been through trauma, before I stop thinking with my tactical brain and start thinking with something else.
"Come on." I move toward the door with the abruptness of a man making a strategic decision. "I want to show you something."
She blinks, startled. "Outside? But the storm—"
"Storm's lighter now." I'm already reaching for my coat. "You need to see the land while there's still light."
It's not entirely accurate—visibility is marginal at best—but I need distance from the way she looks in my clothes. Need the cold air to clear my head and remind me that I'm supposed to be protecting her, not cataloguing every curve hidden beneath that oversized flannel.
She follows without argument, pulling on her boots. Good. She's learning to trust my judgment, learning that when I give orders out here, they're not suggestions.
The realization sends a dark thrill through me that I firmly suppress.
The air outside bites exposed skin immediately, turning our breath to vapor clouds that vanish in the steady snowfall. Fresh accumulation has erased our earlier tracks, leaving the world pristine and unmarked except for the occasional delicate prints of small woodland creatures.
"Stay close," I tell her, leading down a path already filling with new snow. "Ground's uneven here. Drifts hide roots, stones—things that'll drop you hard if you're not careful."
She falls into step beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm with each uneven stride. The contact sends awareness shooting up my spine, a reminder of how long it's been since I've had a woman in my space, how long since I've wanted one with this particular intensity.
Each brush of contact is catalogued, filed away. The tactical part of my brain notes her breathing pattern, the slight favor she's giving her left ankle where she slipped earlier, the way she automatically moves closer when the wind picks up. She'sadapting. Learning the rhythm of moving through snow, reading the terrain even if she doesn't realize it.
Smart woman. That should worry me more than it does.
"How long have you lived here?" Her voice carries easily in the muffled air, slightly breathless from the effort of pushing through knee-deep snow.
"Five years." I adjust my pace fractionally, keeping her within easy reach while monitoring her peripheral vision for signs of fatigue or cold. "Inherited it from my grandfather when I got out."
"Out of what?"
"Navy." The admission comes easier than it usually does. Most people get a look when they hear that—part fear, part fascination, all wrong assumptions about what that life actually entails. But she just nods like it explains something she'd already figured out.
"That's why you move like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're constantly assessing threat levels. Like you see everything before it happens." She pauses to catch her breath, cheeks flushed pink from exertion and cold. "Like you own whatever space you're in."
"Old habits."
"Useful habits, seems like. Especially out here."
I guide her around a fallen log buried under snow, my hand briefly contacting the small of her back through her coat. Even through the layers, I can feel the heat of her, the subtle arch ofher spine as she navigates the obstacle. The touch lingers longer than necessary before I force myself to pull back.
"You prefer winter." she says.
"What makes you think that?"
