She looks up at me, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes wide and startled. Snowflakes have caught in her hair, melting slowly, and I can see her breath mixing with mine in the small space between us.
"Thanks," she says quietly.
I release her and step back, shoving my hands into my pockets like that will somehow erase the memory of how she felt. "Watch your footing, ice builds up fast out here."
"Noted."
We finish loading the wood and head back inside, shaking snow off our boots and coats.
I feel my skin prickle as blood rushes back to my fingers and face. The contrast between outside and inside is almost painful, but in a good way, the kind of pain that reminds you you're alive.
Demi peels off her outer layers, hanging her coat and cardigan by the door, and I catch myself watching the way her sweater clings to her waist and hips.
She's all generous curves that make my mouth go dry, and she moves through the space with an ease that suggests she's comfortable in her own skin. There's no hesitation, no attempt to make herself smaller or less visible.
I look away before she catches me staring.
"I'm making dinner," I announce, more to fill the silence than anything else.
"You cook?"
"I live alone in the mountains. What do you think I do? Starve?"
She grins, and the expression lights up her whole face. "Fair point. Can I help?"
"You don't have to—"
"Joseph." She crosses her arms, leaning one hip against the counter in a way that draws my eyes to the curve of her waist. "I'm not going to sit on the couch and watch you do all the work. Let me help."
I sigh. "Fine. You can chop vegetables."
"I'm an excellent chopper."
"We'll see."
I pull chicken breasts from the fridge, seasoning them with salt, pepper, and garlic powder while Demi washes her hands at the sink. The water runs cold at first, then warm, and I watch her scrub her palms together. I set her up with a cutting board, a knife, and a pile of carrots, red onions, and bell peppers.
She gets to work immediately, her movements confident and efficient. The knife moves in a steady rhythm and I realize she wasn't exaggerating. Sheisgood at this.
The cast iron skillet heats on the stove, and I add a drizzle of olive oil, waiting for it to shimmer before laying the chicken in. It sizzles immediately, the sound loud and satisfying in the small space, and the smell of garlic and browning meat begins to fill the cabin. Rich and savory.
"That smells amazing," Demi says, glancing over her shoulder.
"It's just chicken."
"Just chicken," she repeats, amused. "You're one of those people, aren't you?"
"What people?"
"The kind who downplays everything they're good at."
I flip the chicken, watching the skin crisp and turn golden, the edges darkening just slightly. "I'm not downplaying. I'm being accurate."
"Uh-huh."
She goes back to chopping, and I hear the rhythmic thud of the knife against the board, steady and sure. After a moment, she starts humming, something low and tuneless, just a soft sound under her breath.
I finish searing the chicken and set it aside to rest, then start on the glaze. Butter melts in the pan, foaming and bubbling, and I add minced garlic, lemon juice, and a pinch of red pepper flakes. The scent shifts immediately, brightening with citrus and heat, cutting through the richness of the butter.
