He’s close enough that I can see the individual snowflakes caught in his dark hair. Close enough to count the faint freckles across his nose that I’d forgotten about. Close enough that if I tilted my chin up, just slightly...
His breath catches. I hear it. A tiny hitch, almost imperceptible, but I’m close enough to feel the stutter in his chest.
He’s not unaffected.
The realization hits me like a second fall, just as disorienting. He’s standing here with his walls up and his face blank, but his heart is racing and his hand is trembling against my waist and he smells like he’s barely holding himself together.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Just for a heartbeat. So fast I almost miss it.
His scent spikes. Darker. Hungrier. I feel his fingers tighten on my waist, feel a low rumble start in his chest. Alpha instinct, responding to omega. Tohisomega.
Then his jaw tightens and his expression shutters, and he steps back so fast I stumble again.
“Careful.” His voice is rough. Strained. “The ice is slippery.”
“I... thank you...”
“Be more careful, Ms. Donovan.”
Ms. Donovan.Again. Like a door slamming shut.
He bends down, picks up the coffee cup that somehow didn’t break, and holds it out to me. His hand is steady. His face is blank.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“You didn’t drink any of it.”
“No.” A pause. “I didn’t.”
He turns around, grabs his shovel, and walks to his truck without looking back.
I watch him toss the shovel in the bed, climb into the cab, and pull out of the driveway with the careful precision of someone who absolutely does not speed, even when they’re fleeing an emotional confrontation.
The taillights disappear around the corner.
I’m still standing on the porch. Cold coffee dripping down my hand. My arm tingling where he grabbed me.
The front door opens behind me.
“Well.” Grandma’s voice is bone dry. “That looked productive.”
“He called me ‘Ms. Donovan.’“ I don’t turn around. “Twice.”
“Ouch.”
“He didn’t even take the coffee.”
“To be fair, most of it’s on the ground now.”
I look down. She’s right. The snow at my feet is stained brown, steam still rising from the puddle.
“He caught me.” I’m staring at the empty driveway. “When I slipped. He caught me.”
Grandma is silent for a moment.
“Of course he did. Nate Thorn has been catching things that fall since he was six years old. It’s what he does.”
