I glance across the clearing at the place, and it looks like it’s still standing purely out of spite.
Weathered boards sag inward, like tired shoulders that have carried too much weight for too long. Rust bleeds down the tin roof in streaks, accentuating where it bows in the middle. The only remaining shutter hangs crooked from a single hinge, slamming weakly against the frame each time the wind punches through.
Easton ties off Ranger, and we sprint toward the shack. The open stretch between us and the shack isn’t far—maybe fifty yards—but in this weather it feels like a mile. The ground squelches beneath my boots, the mud greedily sucking at the soles. The field is slick and treacherous, the grass plastered flat by the deluge. My boot slides, and panic spikes white-hot in my chest as I prepare to fall. Easton’s hand clamps around my elbow before I can hit the ground, his grip iron-strong and steadying me without breaking our pace.
The rain cuts sharp against my face, needling the exposed skin. My jacket is useless, soaked through and heavy as stone on my shoulders.
We race onto what passes for a porch—two bowed planks and an overhang that rattles in protest—as thunder detonates overhead so violently it feels like the sky has split open directly above us.
“It’s been abandoned for a few decades,” I shout, fighting to work my numb fingers and grab the handle. “But it’s dry.”
I twist hard, but the knob doesn’t budge.
“It’s locked.”
Wind slams into us again, cutting straight through my soaked layers. I shiver violently, teeth clacking together so hard it sends a jolt of pain through my jaw.
Easton steps back, plants one boot, and drives his shoulder into the door without hesitation. The wood groans but holds. He hits it again. The frame splinters a little, but the lock clings stubbornly in place. On the third impact, the entire thing gives with a sharp, splintering crack. The door bursts inward, swinging crookedly on worn, bent hinges.
We stumble inside, and the difference is immediate. The storm’s roar dulls to a muffled, furious howl. Rain still finds its way through the small seams in the roof, dripping in thin lines, but it’s nothing compared to outside.
The air inside smells stale and musty, almost sour. My eyes adjust slowly to the dim lighting.
To the right, the remains of a small kitchen sag against the wall. The counter is coated with dust, its rusted sink isstreaked orange. Cabinets hang open on hinges that are giving way. An overturned table lies near the far wall, one leg snapped clean off. The floorboards are warped and uneven.
An old cast-iron stove squats in the corner, the exhaust pipe disconnected and rusted through. Cobwebs stretch out, lace-like, between the ceiling beams in ghostly strands. The wallpaper—once floral, maybe—peels away in long, curling strips, revealing the plaster beneath.
It’s exactly what you’d expect from a place no one has loved in decades.
The adrenaline that kept me moving drains too fast now we’ve stopped, leaving only cold in its wake. It seeps deep, past my skin, and into my bones. I wrap my arms around myself, but it does nothing. My teeth chatter so hard I taste blood where I’ve bitten my tongue.
Easton turns toward me, and the shift in his expression is instant. “Teagan.” His voice quavers.
I try to answer, but my jaw barely works, and the words come out in broken pieces. “I’m… s-so cold.” The exhaustion hits like a wall, my limbs suddenly feeling weighted and my eyelids heavy. A dangerous kind of heavy. “And tired.”
He quickly shrugs out of his jacket, letting the rain-sodden fabric drop to the floor at his feet. It barely lands before he grips the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one swift motion. Water drips from his hair, sliding down the lines of his chest. His skin is flushed from the cold and exertion, muscles tight beneath goosebumps.
“What are you doing?” My voice shakes so hard, it barely sounds like me.
“Body heat,” he states simply, already stepping closer. “We need to get you out of those wet clothes before you get hypothermia.”
He moves without hesitation or awkwardness. Just urgency. He pushes my jacket off my shoulders. It hits the floor with a heavy, soaked thud. His fingers move to my flannel, working the buttons quickly. My hands hang, useless at my sides, trembling too hard to help. Easton pushes the flannel down my arms, and it lands atop the jacket. He doesn’t pause, his fingers hook into the hem of my thermal, and he briskly pulls it over my head.
The cold air bites hard against bare skin, and I gasp. He presses his palms to my arms and rubs briskly to generate heat. “Stay with me,” he mutters, voice low and steady. “We’re gonna warm you up.”
My hands lift on instinct, pressing flat against the pronounced pecs of his bare chest. He’s warm. Not blazing, but a living furnace compared to the ice in my veins. The contrast between his warmth and my icy skin is jarring. He drags me against him without another word, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and back, sealing me into him completely. My cheek presses to his chest. His heart pounds beneath my ear, strong and sure.
I shudder uncontrollably, and he pulls me tighter to him, his hands rubbing vigorously over my bare skin. His lips resting against my forehead, he murmurs, “I’ve got you,wildfire.”
The nickname slices through the haze. He said it earlier, too. “Why do you call me that?” I manage, tilting my face toward his, my teeth still chattering. His arms tighten reflexively when another tremor runs through me.
“Because,” he says, his breath warm against my face, “you tear through everything. Wild, free, and an almost unstoppable force.”
I don’t feel unstoppable. I feel wrecked, shaking, and frighteningly fragile. But held flush against Easton, I feel safe.
Outside, thunder rolls again. The shack creaks, old boards shifting with each heavy gust of wind.
Easton’s thumb brushes along my cheek, slow and deliberate, pushing a strand of wet hair away from my face.
