“It’s not negative thirty,” he says, rubbing both hands over his face. “I doubt it’s even below zero.”
Gideon gives me a long, indecipherable look, and I can’t tell if he’s thinking or just half-asleep. I glare back, bracing myself to argue about where we’re sleeping.
Then he gets up and walks into the bedroom, which, fine, he can sleep the Antarctic ice cave if he’d rather be in there thanshare a room—
There’s an ominous creak, followed by a bang and Gideon mutteringow, fuck.
“What are you—oh,” I say, still on the floor next to my camping pad, surrounded by my pile of blankets, as he sidesteps through the door with a twin mattress in his arms.
Oh.
It’s unwieldy, being a mattress, and he keeps swearing every time it hits something, so I get up and help him. I get a mutteredthanksbefore we plop it on the floor, and then we’re standing on opposite sides of this twin mattress, looking at each other. I’ve got on several layers of sleep gear, and all Gideon’s got on is that same thin, tight base layer and a pair of thermal pants that don’t leave a lot to the imagination, even in this low light.Thighs. God.
He runs a hand through his hair again, highlighted in the orange glow.
“Floor’s not very warm,” he offers. “If you’re cold, you need more insulation.”
“You’re not cold?” I ask, and he just shrugs thick shoulders, folding his arms over his chest. The light catches on every single muscle in them, outlining his body in dramatic shadows.
“I run hot when I sleep.”
I swallow and maintain eye contact, but I can’t think of anything worth saying. It’s some ungodly, timeless hour of the morning. It’s black beyond the windows. My brain is half-awake at best, thoughts swirling lazily past like snowflakes, melting when I try to grab them. I feel unmoored, unanchored, like this cabin might be a child’s diorama and at any moment the roof will come off and faces will appear.
“Thanks,” I finally say. “For the mattress.”
“You okay?”
I shove the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to trick my brain into waking up because I know I’m not dreaming, but this doesn’t feelreal.
“Areyouokay?” I finally ask, copying his stance: feet wide, arms folded. “Or are you going to go sleep in the freezing room so we don’t have to breathe the same air tonight?”
He glances at the door to the bedroom like he’s considering it.
“No,” he finally says. “Do you need help with the blankets?”
God forbid I get any kind of real answer from him.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, and he nods, then heads back to the couch. I rearrange my sleeping bag and all seventeen thousand blankets, and I’m not quiet about it.
I need sleep, is all; I’ll wake up tomorrow and all thisweirdnesswill be sorted. I tell myself that as I blink up at the ceiling.
Sometime between five and five hundred minutes later, Gideon clears his throat softly, and I roll over to look at him. He’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, legs slightly akimbo because the couch is a couple inches too short.
“I saw you naked,” he says, his voice flat and controlled, like he’s confessing sins.
“I haven’tbeennaked,” I say, after a moment. It’s too cold to be naked. Any required clothing removal I’ve been doing piecemeal, top and bottom separately, staying as dressed as possible.
“Topless, then,” he goes on. He’s still not looking at me. “I was outside, and you were in the bedroom, with the lights on, and the curtains were open.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
I start laughing. I don’t know what else to do. I stop when he gives me a look so horrified and betrayed that I feel bad.
“Is that why you went outside?” I tease, but it’s the wrong thing to say because even in the firelight, he turns beet red.
“Of course not,” he says. “It was an accident, at first, and I should have turned back.”
