There's always work to do, and work has the benefit of keeping my mind occupied.
Except she starts following me.
"Need help?"
I glance back to find her pulling on a second layer and tugging her hair free from the collar. It falls in loose waves past her shoulders, catching the firelight for just a second before she moves toward the door. The light turns the blonde strands almost gold, and I look away before I can follow that thought any further.
"You don't have to—"
"I know." She's already reaching for her coat. "But I've been driving for hours. I could use the movement."
I grab my own coat and push the door open, letting the cold rush in.
The world is blue-white and silent in that way only deep winter can manage. Snow covers everything in thick, uneven drifts, smoothing out the rough edges of stumps and rocks and filling in the spaces between trees. The pines stand black and skeletal against the dimming sky, their branches heavy with snow that hasn't fallen yet but threatens to with every gust of wind.
My breath clouds in front of me as I make my way toward the woodpile, boots crunching through snow that's knee-deep in places and crusty on top where it's frozen and thawed and frozen again.
Demi steps out behind me, and I hear her sharp inhale as the cold hits her full force.
"Jesus. It'scold."
"It's February in the mountains." I don't look back, but I can hear the smile in my own voice, dry and a little mean. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something manageable?"
"Thisismanageable."
She laughs warm and unguarded.
I start hauling logs from the stack, loading them into the canvas carrier I keep by the shed. The wood is cold enough to sting even through my gloves, and I work quickly stacking pieces in a way that balances weight and keeps everything stable. Demi moves closer, reaching for a piece of firewood, and I catch her wrist before she can lift it.
"Not that one. It's still green."
She looks at the log, then at me, one eyebrow raised. "How can you tell?"
"Color. The way it smells. Even the weight is different." I release her wrist—aware, suddenly, of how small it felt in my hand—and grab a different piece, holding it out. "This one's seasoned. Feel the difference."
She takes it from me, her gloved fingers brushing mine for just a second, and I feel that touch all the way up my arm. She turns the log over in her hands, studying it like it's a puzzle she's trying to solve, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Huh. Itislighter."
"Told you."
"Don't sound so smug about it."
"I'm not smug. I'm right."
She laughs again, and I realize I'm starting to like that sound more than I should.
We work in silence for a few minutes, loading wood into the carrier. Her breath comes out in white puffs, and I notice theway her cheeks flush pink from the wind, the way she tucks stray hair behind her ear with snow-dusted gloves.
When she bends to pick up another log, I catch the curve of her hip, the soft fullness of her body under layers of fabric, and I have to look away before the observation turns into something I can't ignore.
When she slips slightly on a patch of ice near the shed, I move without thinking, catching her by the waist to steady her.
Her body is soft under my hands. Warm, even through the layers. I feel the curve of her hip, the gentle give of her stomach, and for a second I forget to let go.
She's solid and real and right there, and my brain short-circuits on the sensation of her weight leaning into me, trusting me to hold her upright.
