"Take your time," I say. "I'll heat up some food."
She nods, not looking at me, and slowly unfolds herself from the chair. I turn back to the kitchen, giving her privacy to move, listening to the soft pad of her feet across the floor, the creak of the bathroom door closing.
The lock clicks. Loud in the quiet cabin.
I pull out the pot of stew I made yesterday, set it on the stove to reheat. Check the fire, add another log. The storm's getting worse outside, wind slamming against the walls hard enough to make the windows rattle in their frames. Snow's piling up fast. By morning, the drifts will be waist-high, maybe deeper.
She's not going anywhere. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either, depending on how long this lasts.
She's in there a while, long enough that I start to wonder if she's okay, if the cold did more damage than I thought. But then the door opens and she emerges, dressed in my clothes.
Christ.
Her wet hair is pushed back from her face, and without the coat and wet layers, I can see her properly for the first time.
Curves. Real ones. Hips that flare soft and wide beneath my shirt. Full breasts straining against the fabric. Thick thighs disappearing into too-long pants. She's not small, she's lush and warm and real, the kind of woman meant to be held.
Desire hits me like a fist to the gut. Raw and immediate and completely unwelcome.
I clamp down on it hard, dragging my focus back to the stove before she catches me staring.
She's terrified, running from something bad enough to send her into a blizzard without proper clothes or a plan. The last thing she needs is me looking at her like I want to strip her out of those borrowed clothes and map every soft inch of her with my hands and mouth.
Even if that's exactly what I want.
"Sit," I tell her, nodding toward the table. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Food's almost ready."
She obeys without question, sliding into the chair farthest from me, tucking herself into the corner like she's trying to disappear. I dish out two bowls of stew—venison, potatoes, carrots, thick and hot—and set one in front of her along with a spoon and a hunk of bread.
"Eat."
She picks up the spoon, hesitates, then takes a small bite. I watch her swallow, see the way her shoulders ease slightly as warmth hits her stomach.
I take the chair across from her, eating in silence. Giving her space to settle, to realize I'm not going to interrogate her or demand explanations.
She eats slowly at first, then faster, like hunger is catching up to fear. I refill her bowl without comment when she finishes. She glances up at me, surprised, then murmurs something that might be thank you and keeps eating.
I let her have three bites before I speak.
"You want to tell me what you're running from?"
Her spoon freezes halfway to her mouth. She sets it down carefully, too carefully, and her hands disappear beneath the table. Hiding. Bracing.
"I'm not—" She stops. Swallows. Tries again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I'll leave as soon as the storm clears, I won't—"
"Didn't ask you to leave." I keep my tone level, firm. "Asked what you're running from."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring down at her bowl.
"My fiancé," she finally says. Barely a whisper. "Ex-fiancé, I guess. I—I left. This morning. Before the wedding."
Everything in me goes still.
"He hurt you."
I can see it in the way she holds herself, the flinch reflex, the apologies. The ring mark on her finger where she tore off the symbol of his claim.
"Not—" She stops again, struggling. "He'd get angry." Her voice cracks. "I realized I couldn't do it. Couldn't marry him. So I ran."
