“Sounds familiar.” She nocks the arrow, lifts the bow. For a moment the world seems to contract around her, around that line from her shoulder through her arm and into the arrow, all tension and intent.
She takes a breath.
Forgets I exist.
Releases.
The arrow sails in a clean arc, hissing softly. It buries itself in a tree trunk half a yard from my head with a thunk I feel in my teeth.
The rope bites into the bark, the line pulled taut between porch post and tree.
I stare at it, then at her.
She lowers the bow, watching me with wide, fierce eyes. “Grab the rope!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, adrenaline making me stupidly giddy.
I reach for the line. It’s ice-cold and rough under my gloves. I wrap it around my forearm, test the tension. Solid. Between the anchored arrow and the post, it’s a crude but effective handrail.
“OK,” I call. “Gonna try the slow, sexy limp now.”
“Please don’t die,” she yells back, voice too thin to be a joke.
“Not my plan!”
I start up the slope one step at a time, using the rope to take most of my weight. The snow gives way in sliding chunks under my boots, but the line keeps me from going full avalanche again. Every few steps my ankle complains with a hot shock of pain, but I grit my teeth and keep going.
It takes forever. Or maybe two minutes. Time is weird when you’re concentrating on not falling on your face in front of a woman who just performed an archery miracle to keep you safe.
By the time I haul myself over the lip of the slope, my lungs are burning and my whole leg is trembling.
Ally is there, snow dusting her hair, bow still in hand, eyes wild. She drops it the moment she sees me and closes the distance in three strides.
“Youtwat faced butthole!Are you insane?!” she demands, grabbing my coat sleeves. “What the hell happened?” Her voice breaks for real this time. She claps her mouth shut like she’s surprised by it.
“I’m OK,” I say, catching my breath. “Just a little -”
She punches my shoulder. Thankfully not the pained one, and thankfully not hard.
“Idiot,” she says. “You unbelievable, tit headedidiot.”
I smirk, basking in her concern and her inventive cursing. “I love you too,” I say, and then my brain catches up to my mouth way too late.
Silence drops between us like an anvil.
Her fingers tighten on my sleeves. Her eyes, already bright from the cold, go hotter, sharper. “Don’t,” she whispers, pulling me infinitesimally closer despite her plea.
I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t.
I’m limping, half-frozen, riding a surge of adrenaline and stupid relief, and she’s close enough that I can count the snowflakes melting on her lashes. Close enough that I can see the tremor in her mouth.
She saved me. She’s shaking. I’m shaking.
And some deep, buried, selfish part of me surges up and takes the wheel.
Before I can stop myself, I lean in and kiss her.
