It takes coaxing to pull him inside for a meal. Relief shows the instant he sinks into a chair, though he masks it with stubborn pride.
“You should rest,” I urge.
“No. This is good. Fresh air, work…” His hand slides across the table, brushing mine. “And company.”
The smile that follows is a knife and a balm all at once. He steadiesme. He sets me alight. I find myself grateful for the work of the day, the chores that give me space when the weight of that smile threatens to undo me.
But my defenses falter often. The sunlight in his hair catches hints of brown and bronze I’ve never noticed before. A single bead of sweat tracing his temple nearly sends me stumbling. When he moves as if to catch me, I wave him off, blaming my clumsiness.
At the edge of the yard, surveying our work, his expression shifts. The look of contemplation and concern on Vale’s face gives me pause. He answers without my asking.
“There is a storm coming,” he says with complete certainty.
I glance upward and see the uneasy transformation. The sky sheds its lace of white for swollen grays that press low, a quiet weight gathering long before thunder’s voice can be heard. Even Bracken seems to sense it, his ears flicking restlessly.
“We’ve been so fortunate the weather has held this long. I should have seen to the shelter sooner.”
“You’ve already done more than anyone ought.”
“The old byre, where I fetch his hay, its roof is failing. With some work, it may keep through the storm.”
Beyond the garden, the small structure sags, hardly fit to call a stable. Perhaps once, when Eryndor had need. I study the damage: a gaping wound in the thatch, wide enough to leave Bracken exposed, and splintered boards that make the walls a poor defense.
“If we can patch the roof and brace these gaps, its bones should hold.”
There is always the chance the storm might pass us by. But that is not a risk we can take. We carry out a ladder; Vale’s protests sharp as I set my foot upon the rungs.
“Your frame would splinter it to kindling, Vale. Leave the roof to me.”
From the moment my foot leaves the ground in my steady climb, his eyes never leave me. I move as lightly as I can, weaving new thatch into place while he hammers boards below.
“It’s no craftsman’s work,” I say, brushing straw and dust from my clothes when I return to the ground, “but it should hold.”
Together we work, me bracing planks as Vale drives nails with swift, sure strikes. Thunder rolls closer, a low drumbeat of warning. Then lightning splits the sky. Bracken’s neigh rings sharp with fear. We force him inside, and I smooth the blanket across his back.
“You’ll be safe here,” I whisper.
The wind rises, tearing at the door until it groans against our grip. A gust rips one hinge free. Rain begins to strike in sharp pelts.
“Go inside,” Vale barks. “I’ll fix this.”
The door shudders in his grasp as the storm bellows and roars. My jaw clenches. I seize the hammer.
“No,” I shout above the din. “We do this together!”
“This is not the time to stand your ground, Mira!” His voice strains against the howling wind.
But I no longer listen. He is already giving every ounce of strength to hold the door from tearing loose. I drive nails with shaking hands, each strike small but furious, determination carrying me through. Until together we force the door shut.
We race inside as the storm lashes the cottage walls, rain striking with fury. Fire in the hearth, already blazing for our supper, offers little comfort against the chill. I tremble, soaked to the bone, but it is not the storm that makes me shake. It is him.
“Gods, woman!” Vale’s voice cracks like thunder, his chest heaving with fury. Water streams from his hair, from the hard cut of his jaw. His eyes burn hotter than the fire itself. “Do you have any sense at all? I told you to get inside!”
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them, mixing with the rain on my cheeks. The harshness in his tone rattles against my defiance. “And leave you out there alone?” The words rip from me, sharp and shaking. “Never!”
“You infuriate me, Mira!” he roars back, stepping closer until the storm itself seems to shrink from his presence. “Even wounded, I am stronger than you. Do you not see it? Do you not understand the danger you court?”
“I understand,” I shout, my voice breaking, “that I cannot stand in here while you face it alone. I will not leave you.” The words leave my lips without a thought. Utter truth. Any promise I may have made tomyself, to the world—resigning myself to spend this life alone is swept away with the storm. He is the center of it now.
