"The way you move out here. Like you're completely comfortable with the cold and isolation." Another pause for breath, her words forming small clouds between us. "And when you talk about it, there's satisfaction in your voice. Like winter strips away pretense, leaves things honest."
Christ.She reads me like terrain, notes details most people miss entirely.
"Winter doesn't lie," I tell her. "It'll kill you if you're careless, but it's honest about its intentions. No false promises, no hidden agendas."
"Unlike people."
"Unlike most people." The admission comes out before I can stop it.
We crest a small rise, and I position myself behind her where I can watch her reaction while still maintaining visual contact with our surroundings. The vista spreads below us—rolling hills blanketed in white, dense forest extending to the horizon, the whole world transformed into something untouched and pristine despite the steady snowfall obscuring the distant ridgelines.
"Oh." The word escapes her on a breathless exhale, and I watch her face transform with genuine wonder. No calculation, no pretense, just pure appreciation for something most people would find harsh and unwelcoming. "Joel, this is incredible."
My name on her lips does something to my chest, tightens something that's been locked down for years.
I step closer, ostensibly to point out landmarks, but really because I need to be near her warmth, her energy, her soft presence cutting through this stark landscape like a flame.
"See that ridge line?" I point over her shoulder, letting my arm brush hers as I indicate the distant peaks barely visible through the snow. "Northern boundary of my property. Extends about two miles in each direction from where we're standing."
"All of this belongs to you?" There's something like awe in her voice.
"Every tree. Every stream. Every game trail." The pride in my voice is unmistakable, territorial in a way that goes bone-deep. "I know every inch of it. Every seasonal change, every animal path, every place where the snow drifts deepest or the ice forms thickest."
She turns to look up at me, and I realize how close we're standing. Close enough to see individual snowflakes clinging to her dark lashes, close enough to watch her lips part slightly as she tries to regulate her breathing in the thin air. Close enough that leaning down would bring my mouth to hers with minimal effort.
The thought hits like tactical intelligence—immediate, actionable, dangerous.
"It's like your own kingdom," she whispers.
"Something like that." My voice has dropped to almost intimate levels, and I watch her pupils dilate in response. Good. She's not immune to the proximity either. "Question is—what does that make you?"
"A trespasser." But there's no apology in her tone. If anything, she sounds intrigued by the concept, like she's testing the weight of it.
"Maybe." I reach out to brush snow from her hair, the gesture more possessive than helpful. The strands are soft between my fingers, warmed by body heat despite the cold air. "Or maybe something else."
Wind cuts across the ridge, sharp enough to make her shiver despite her layers. Without conscious thought, I shift position to block the worst of it, using my bulk to create a windbreak. She doesn't pull away—if anything, she steps closer to my warmth, and the trust implicit in that movement hits harder than enemy fire ever did.
She trusts me. This woman who doesn't know my last name, who has no idea what I've done or what I'm capable of, trusts me enough to seek shelter against my body without hesitation.
"We should head back," I say, though breaking this moment feels like tactical retreat. "Light's fading, and temperature's dropping fast."
She nods but doesn't immediately step away. She stays pressed against my side as we start back toward the cabin, her frame fitting against mine like she was designed for it. I tell myself it's practical—shared body heat, wind protection, basic survival protocol.
The truth is more complicated. The truth is that I want to keep her exactly where she is, want to feel her heartbeat against my ribs and her soft breathing synchronizing with mine. Want to mark her scent with mine until every animal in these woods knows she's under my protection.
"Joel?" Her voice is soft, nearly lost in the whisper of falling snow and the distant crack of ice-laden branches adjusting to new weight.
"Yeah?"
"Earlier, when you found me at the waterfall—were you really worried I was some kind of surveyor?"
The question catches me off-guard.
"Partly," I admit, automatically adjusting our path to avoid a drift I know runs deeper than it appears. "This land's been in my family for three generations. I've seen what happens when outsiders decide they want a piece of wilderness for development."
"And the other part?"
I glance down, noting the way she's watching me with those dark, intelligent eyes. Reading micro-expressions, cataloguing responses. She's gathering intelligence just like I am, which should make me more cautious.
