I shift her weight, freeing one hand to punch the code into the keypad. The lock disengages with a heavy thunk. I shoulder the door open and step inside, kicking it shut behind us against the wind.
The silence is instant.
Military-grade insulation reduces the storm outside to a dull hum. The air inside is cool but dry, smelling of cedar, gun oil, and the lingering aroma of my morning coffee.
I hold her in the entryway, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. The only light comes from the embers in the woodstove across the room and the blinking LED of the security panel.
"We're here," I say.
She lifts her head, blinking groggily. "It smells like you."
The unfiltered honesty makes my jaw clench.
I walk over to the large leather sofa facing the hearth and lower her down. I’m careful with her ankle, settling her into the cornercushions. She looks tiny against the dark leather, a splash of color and wet chaos in my orderly, monochrome world.
I step back, needing distance. Her body heat still clings to my jacket.
"Stay there," I command. "I need to get the fire up."
I strip off my soaked outer jacket and hang it by the door, then move to the stove. My movements are mechanical—open the grate, stir the coals, add kindling, feed the logs—but my mind races.
She watches me. I feel her eyes on my back like a laser sight between my shoulder blades.
"Oliver?"
I freeze, poker in hand. "Yeah?"
"Thank you." Her voice is small, stripped of her porch bravado. "For... catching me."
I turn around. The fire catches now, casting flickering orange light across the room. It illuminates her wet hair plastering to her skull and the tremors racking her body.
She’s soaked to the bone.
"You're freezing," I state, ignoring her gratitude. Gratitude is useless. Preparation keeps you alive. "We need to get you out of those wet clothes."
Her eyes widen, panic flashing in the whites before she hides it. "I... I can do it. Do you have a towel?"
"I have towels," I say, walking toward the hallway. "And dry clothes. Yours are in the bag, but they're cold. You'll wear mine."
"Yours will drown me."
"Better to drown in wool than freeze in wet denim."
I grab a thick towel and a gray thermal shirt from my dresser. I pause for a second, looking at the shirt in my hand. It’s going to hang off her like a dress. The image of her wearing my clothes, walking around my space marked by my scent, hits me hard.
I grip the fabric tight. The strength in my hands threatens to rip it.
She is a guest,I tell myself.A refugee from the storm. Nothing else.
The lie tastes like ash.
I walk back into the main room. She struggles to unlace her boots, hands shaking too hard to work the knots.
"Stop," I say, dropping the clothes on the coffee table.
I drop to my knees in front of her. It’s a position of submission, but we both know who has control here. I take her foot in my hand. Her boot is caked in mud.
"I can do it," she whispers, but she doesn't pull away.
