By the time he emerges, I've gotten myself under control. Mostly.
"Lead the way," he says, and I grab my parka.
The generator shed is small and cramped, forcing us into close proximity as I hold the flashlight while he examines the machinery. He's surprisingly knowledgeable, his hands moving with confidence as he checks connections and tests components.
"How do you know so much about generators?" I ask.
He pauses, his brow furrowing. "I don't know. I just… do." He taps a wire connection. "This is loose. And this filter needs replacing. You have a spare?"
"In the cabin. I'll get it."
When I return with the filter, he's removed his jacket despite the cold, his shirt sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. I try not to stare at the way his hands work, competent and sure, like he's done this a thousand times before.
"You're good at this," I say, handing him the filter.
"Apparently." He flashes me a grin that transforms his face from dangerously handsome to devastating. "Maybe I was a mechanic in my past life."
"Maybe." But I don't think so. Mechanics don't move like predators. They don't have scars like battle maps across their bodies.
He finishes the repair and tests the generator. It hums to life, smooth and steady, and he looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
"There. Should run fine now."
"Thank you, Sasha." The name feels natural now, like it belongs to him even though we both know it's temporary.
We walk back to the cabin together, our breath forming clouds in the frigid air. The sun is setting, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold, and for a moment, I let myself pretend this is normal. That I'm just a woman living in the mountains with a man who makes her heart race, not a fugitive hiding from a death sentence with an amnesiac who might be as dangerous as the people hunting me.
Dinner is comfortable with easy conversation about nothing important. He tells me about the book he's reading, a thriller I recommended, and I tell him about the podcast I listened to while he was outside. We do the dishes together, moving around each other in the small kitchen with a familiarity that shouldn't exist after only two weeks.
"I'm going to shower," he says, and I absolutely do not think about water running over his body, soap sliding across those muscles, and his hands moving over his skin.
"Okay." My voice comes out slightly strangled, and he gives me a look that suggests he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
I busy myself with checking the security feeds, reviewing the cameras, anything to distract myself from the sound of water running in the bathroom. When he emerges twenty minutes later, his hair is damp, and he smells like my soap, and I have to grip the edge of the desk to keep from doing something stupid.
"Your turn," he says, settling onto the couch with his book.
The shower helps. The cold water at the end definitely helps. By the time I emerge in my pajamas, thermal pants, and a long-sleeved shirt, I've gotten myself under control.
He's still reading, his long legs stretched out, his feet bare. I curl up in the armchair with my own book, and we read incomfortable silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the occasional turn of a page.
I'm not sure when I fall asleep, but I wake to the sound of thrashing and mumbled Russian words. Sasha is on the couch, his body rigid, his face contorted in pain or fear or both. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool cabin, and his hands are clenched into fists.
"Sasha." I cross to him quickly, kneeling beside the couch. "Sasha, wake up."
He doesn't respond, just continues to thrash, his voice rising in pitch, the Russian words coming faster. I catch "nyet" and "predatel" again, that word he said the first night. Traitor.
"Sasha!" I shake his good shoulder, harder this time.
His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, and suddenly, I'm on my back on the floor with his hand around my throat. Not squeezing, not hurting, but holding me in place with terrifying efficiency. His body covers mine, heavy and hot, and his gold eyes are empty of recognition.
"Sasha, it's me. It's Maya." I keep my voice calm, even though my heart is trying to break through my ribs. "You were having a nightmare. You're safe."
Recognition floods back into his eyes, and he releases me immediately, rolling off and sitting up in one fluid motion. "Fuck. Maya, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"
"No." I sit up slowly, rubbing my throat. "You didn't hurt me. You were just… somewhere else."
He runs his hands through his hair, his chest heaving. "I was back there. In the snow. Someone was walking away, and Icouldn't move, couldn't stop them." He looks at me, and there's anguish in his eyes. "I think it was someone I trusted. Someone I cared about."
