Something molten flickers in his eyes. “Same.”
We look at each other for a moment that feels like the pause between heartbeats.
“Nate, last night…” I start.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he says. “Gravitational anomaly. Emotional crime scene.” His eyes see straight into my soul. “But we can’t pretend it means nothing.”
“It doesn’t mean nothing,” I admit. The words taste strange and right all at once. “But we’re also snowed in, hiding from our real lives, high on cabin fever and ludicrously good whiskey. This is not exactly neutral ground.”
He nods slowly. “You’re worried that when the snow melts, this will too.”
“Aren’t you?”
Nate gives my words careful thought, his flinty eyes taking on a resigned look. “I’m worried we’ll hurt each other if we don’t talk. But I’m also… weirdly OK with just letting this be what it is for now. Like I said, cabin rules. We don’t make decisions about the outside world while it’s just us and the snow. There’s no point.”
“Cabin rules,” I echo.
He smiles a little. “We can re-evaluate when we’re not living in a literal snow globe.”
“Is that your diplomatic way of saying you’re not asking for anything I can’t give?”
“Yes,” he says. “And my selfish way of saying I want this for as long as we’re stuck here, if you do.”
My pulse kicks.
He searches my face carefully. “Ally.Doyou?”
Last night flashes back in high definition: his mouth on my skin, his hands steady and reverent, and the way he stopped to ask again and again if I was sure.
The way I’d looked at him afterward and thought,I am never walking this back entirely, am I?
So I should enjoy what I’ve got, while I’ve got it.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “I do. I want this. For now.” Maybe not only for now. But like he says, there’s no need to make decisions until the storm halts and the snow thaws.
His shoulders drop, and he leans in, kissing me slowly and carefully, like he’s sealing a pact. “OK,” he whispers. “For now.”
His hand brushes my hip under the duvet, fingertips tracing the curve slowly, asking as clearly as words. I catch his wrist, not to pull it away, just to anchor myself. “Coffee first,” I say. “Then… whatever cabin rule four is.”
His grin is quick and devastating. “Deal. I’ll make it. You stay here. My ankle’s good enough for coffee duty.”
“You should be resting it.”
“I’ll limp heroically. You can ogle the effort from bed.” He kisses my forehead before dragging himself upright and padding toward the door, naked, bruised, and mouth wateringly beautiful.
I watch him go and think, not for the first time, that any chance of consigning him to the past is long gone.
***
The day folds itself around us, soft and strange. We eat toast and eggs at the tiny kitchen table, knees bumping. We wash dishes companionably. Later, he sits propped on the couch with his foot up on a small stool while I raid the cupboards and find an ancient pack of cards and a battered chess set, the latter of which he chooses.
“Checkmate,” I announce an hour later, smug. The Back Rank method served me well.
He stares at the board, frowning. “You absolutely cheated.”
“You absolutely underestimated me.”
He leans back, eyes narrowed, impressed. “Remind me never to play anything involving strategy and sharp objects with you.”
