"Coffee?" I offer. Safe. Domestic. Normal.
"Yeah." He strips off layers methodically. Hangs his coat. Sets his boots by the door. Everything precise and controlled while I watch him move and remember how that control shattered last night when he came inside me.
I pour coffee. Hand him the mug. Our fingers brush and heat explodes between us. Electric. Consuming. Everything we've been acting like doesn't exist all day crashes over us in a wave that makes my breath catch.
This time neither of us pulls away.
We stand there, fingers touching on ceramic, eyes locked, both breathing too hard for people who haven't moved. The air between us thrums with want and memory and the promise of more if either of us is brave enough or stupid enough to reach for it.
"Neve." My name in his mouth is warning and invitation both.
"I know." My voice shakes. "This is a bad idea."
"Terrible idea." He doesn't move. Doesn't create space. Just stands there looking at me like he's calculating risk versus reward and coming up with an equation that doesn't balance. "We should establish boundaries."
"Should we?" I don't step back. Don't break eye contact. Don't do any of the smart things my brain is screaming at me to do.
"Survival partnership." His voice drops lower. Rougher. "Keep it simple."
"Simple." I'm agreeing even as my body sways toward his. "Uncomplicated."
He sets his coffee down. Doesn't break eye contact. "We're clear on that."
"Crystal clear." I set mine down too. We're inches apart now. Close enough that I can feel his heat. See his pupils dilate. Watch his jaw clench with the effort of not closing that final distance.
He reaches up. Brushes snow from my hair where I must have gotten too close to him when he came in. His fingers trail fire across my skin. Linger at my temple. Trace down to my jaw. "Good."
"So we're agreed." My voice barely works. My body is screaming for his touch. For more than this careful almost-contact that's driving me insane.
His thumb traces my lower lip. Gentle pressure that makes me want to bite him. Taste him. Pull him closer and damn the consequences. "Absolutely agreed."
His hand drops. He steps back. The space between us feels like violence. "I should check the weather reports. See if the storm's tracking has changed."
"Right. Yes. Storm." I can barely remember what words mean when he looks at me like that. "I'll start dinner."
We separate. Retreat to opposite sides of the cabin like we might forget what the other feels like if we just maintain enough physical distance.
Dinner is quiet. Tense. We eat without tasting. Make small talk that rings false. Act normal while tension coils tighter with every passing minute.
"Tell me about flying." I break the silence because I can't stand it anymore. Need conversation, connection, something to focus on besides the way his hands look holding his fork. "How you got into it. What made you choose Alaska."
He looks up. Wary. "What do you want to know?"
"You said you were Air Force. How did that lead to..." I gesture around the cabin. "This."
"Did my time. Got out. Ended up here." His tone flattens. Warning that I'm treading on ground he doesn't share.
"That's not a story. That's a resume." I push gentler now. Curious scientist meeting careful survivor. "What happened between 'did my time' and 'ended up here'?"
Silence stretches while he decides whether to answer. Whether to give me this piece of himself. Then he sighs. Sets down his fork. Looks past me to the windows showing nothing but white.
"There was a village." His voice is flat. Stripped of emotion. "Remote. Hostile territory. Intel said it was clear. Intel was wrong."
I stay quiet. Let him work through it at his own pace.
"We had orders to stay out. Not our mission. Not our problem. Standard operating procedure—don't deviate, don't get involved, complete the objective and get out." He picks up his coffee. Doesn't drink. Just holds it. "I deviated."
"You saved people." It's not a question. I can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders. The way his jaw locks around words he doesn't want to say.
