"Generator's frozen. I can fix it, but not tonight. Not in this."
"And the good news?"
"Gas still works. We have hot water, stove, and the fireplaces."
"Fireplaces plural?"
"Two. One here, one in my bedroom. The bedroom is smaller. It's the only space that'll actually stay warm tonight."
I process this slowly. "The bedroom."
"Yeah."
"Your bedroom."
"Yeah."
"With one bed."
"Yeah."
Of course. Of course this is happening.
"I can sleep on the couch in there," he says quickly. "There's a small one—"
"We'll figure it out."
He heads back into the storm for my bag.
The guest room upstairs is already cold. I change quickly, brush my teeth by candlelight, and stare at myself in the mirror.
"You’re sharing a bed with a hot mountain man during a blizzard," I whisper. "This is fine."
I am not convinced.
I make my way back downstairs and knock softly on his bedroom door.
"Come in."
Firelight fills the room. It’s smaller than I expected. Intimate. A massive bed. Quilts piled high.
"I’ll take the couch," he says.
"You’re six three. That couch is five feet."
He hesitates. "You sure?"
No.
"Yes."
He takes the side closest to the door.
Protective.
I slide under the covers. The bed is dangerously comfortable.
A careful foot of space stretches between us.
