"How long?"
"The storm's supposed to clear by morning." He's building a fire with practiced hands. "Resort knows the protocol. They'll expect us here."
"So we're spending the night. Together. Alone."
He looks up, and something flickers in his eyes. "Yeah. Is that a problem, Ice Queen?" His tone is gentler than usual, but I hate the nickname.
"Don't call me that."
"Sorry. Habit." The fire catches, warmth beginning to spread. "You okay? Any injuries?"
"I'm fine. Just cold."
"Let's get you out of the wet outer layers."
He helps me remove my jacket, gloves, and outer snow pants. His hands are professional, careful, but I'm hyperaware of every touch. I’m down to base layers—thermal tops and leggings—and I feel naked despite being clothed.
Brennan removes his own outer layers, and I try not to notice how the thermal shirt clings to his chest and shoulders.
He finds emergency blankets, heats water for tea, and within thirty minutes we're sitting by the fire with hot drinks and protein bars, the worst of the adrenaline crash fading.
"I knew I shouldn’t have come. Should’ve stayed at the resort," I mumble.
"Why?"
My neck snaps as I look at him. “Seriously? Look at where we are.” I throw my hands around.
"Stop. This isn’t the first time and won’t be the last time weather happens. And we're safe." He looks at me seriously."You did great out there, Avery. No panic, followed directions, kept moving. Many people would've frozen up. This is what living is all about."
"I was terrified."
"Me too. But we handled it."
We sit in silence, listening to the wind howl outside and the fire crackle inside. The cabin is cozy despite the circumstances. Intimate.
"Can I ask you something?" Brennan says.
"Sure."
"Why did you really come on this retreat? And don't say, “to relax.” Nobody schedules relaxation down to the minute if they want to relax."
I should deflect. Change the subject. Maintain professional distance.
But something about the storm, the cabin, the firelight makes me honest.
"My friends think I'm broken," I admit. "They're right. I'm twenty-five and I've never had a serious relationship because I'm too busy working. I don't have hobbies. I color-code my sock drawer. I brought case files on vacation."
"That doesn't sound broken. That sounds scared."
"Of what?"
"You tell me."
I stare into the fire, searching for words. "My parents are academics. Brilliant, accomplished, emotionally distant. They loved my achievements—scholarships, law school, job offers—but dismissed anything that couldn't be quantified. Feelings were 'illogical.' Spontaneity was 'irresponsible.' I learned early that control equals safety, emotion equals vulnerability, and vulnerability equals pain."
Brennan's quiet for a long moment. "That sounds lonely."
"It is. Was. I don't know." I look at him. "Yesterday, on that snowmobile, I felt... free. For maybe the first time in my life. And it terrified me. Because if I let go of control, I don't know who I am."
