"You're safe," he says quietly.
He reaches past me and opens the door.
He gestures me inside, and I step over the threshold, Bolt padding in beside me. The door closes behind us, shutting out the wind and the cold and the storm.
And for the first time in what feels like hours, I can breathe.
Chapter 2 – Ezra
She's shaking.
Not the small tremor of someone caught off-guard by cold. The full-body kind that comes when the body starts shutting down non-essential systems to keep the core warm. Her lips are pale, almost bloodless. Her cheeks are flushed too bright, red flags against skin gone waxy.
I scan her quickly, cataloging: wet jeans frozen stiff at the hems, soaked boots, gloves dark with moisture. She's been out here longer than she should have been.
The dog sits at my feet, panting and wagging like this is all a grand adventure. He's fine. Came straight to my cabin when he bolted, probably following the scent of smoke or the chickens in the coop out back. Found him nosing around the woodpile not ten minutes before I heard her calling.
I'd already grabbed his leash when I went looking for whoever was stupid enough to be out here in this.
Her eyes are unfocused, glassy. Shock, maybe. Or the early edge of hypothermia.
Inside, the air is warm and thick with the smell of woodsmoke and the food I left on the stove. The fire crackles in the hearth, flames dancing behind the blackened grate.
She stops just inside the door, swaying again, and I step around her to block the draft still seeping in through the edges of the frame.
"Boots off," I say.
She blinks at me, then looks down at her feet like she's surprised to find boots there. Her hands move slowly, clumsily, fumbling with the laces.
I kneel and do it for her.
Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. I unlace the boots quickly, my fingers efficient despite their size, and ease them off her feet. Her socks are soaked through, clinging to her skin, and I can feel the cold radiating off her even through the wet fabric.
"Socks too," I say, glancing up at her.
Her face is pink now, embarrassment cutting through the shock. She peels them off, fingers shaking, and I take them from her without comment, tossing them near the hearth where they'll dry.
"You should sit down," I tell her, nodding toward the chair closest to the stove.
She moves toward it, slow and unsteady, and lowers herself into the seat. Bolt follows and sits at her feet, his tail thumping against the floor.
I straighten and move to the stove, pulling the kettle off the heat and pouring tea into a mug. I add a spoonful of honey, stir it once, and bring it to her.
"Drink."
She takes the mug with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the warmth, and lifts it to her lips. She sips, winces at the heat, then sips again.
I step back and cross my arms, watching her.
The shaking is already easing. Not gone, but less violent. Her shoulders are still hunched, her body curled in on itself, but the mug seems to ground her. She takes another sip, then another, and some of the tension starts to drain from her frame..
"I’m Ezra, by the way," I tell her, keeping my voice low and even.
Behind me, I hear the soft creak of floorboards, and I turn to see Kinsley standing in the doorway to her room, her book tucked under one arm. She's wearing the wool socks I made her put on this morning, and her dark hair is tangled around her face.
She's staring at the woman.
"Dad?" Her voice is quiet, tentative.
