A drowsy voice cut through the quiet.
"You're probably freezing. Come here."
I blinked, still half-asleep in the armchair, stiff-necked and sore.
"It's nothing I can't handle," I murmured, trying to sound convincing.
An impatient sigh drifted from the bed.
"Don't be stubborn. Come here." Her tone left no room for argument.
I chuckled under my breath. "Aren't you demanding?"
One arched brow was all the answer I got. With a long exhale, I pushed myself out of the chair and crossed the room.
"Climb in," she instructed, pulling back the duvet.
"Oh, no. Just point me to another blanket. The chair's fine."
"There aren't any other blankets, and it's freezing," she countered, eyes sharp despite her exhaustion.
"It wouldn't be appropriate. I can't—"
She cut me off, her voice firm but calm. "You haven't tried anything yet, even though you've had every opportunity. That tells me you're a decent man. We do what we have to if we're going to survive this storm."
I scratched the back of my neck, fumbling for excuses. "What if I… I don't know, kick you in my sleep?"
"Then I'll kick you back." Her mouth curved into a mischievous grin, and I had no doubt she meant it.
I gave in with a reluctant laugh and slid under the covers. Warmth cocooned me immediately.
"Good night," she murmured.
"Good night, Amelia," I whispered, before sleep claimed me.
I woke to find her trembling beside me. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, her skin flushed crimson. Her lips moved in fragmented murmurs I couldn't make out. Her breaths came ragged and shallow.
Alarm jolted me fully awake. I pressed my palm to her forehead. Scalding hot. Fever.
I shot out of bed, grabbed a bowl and towel, and filled it with cold water from the kitchen. Kneeling beside her, I wrung the cloth and laid it gently across her brow.
"It's okay," I murmured, though I wasn't sure if I was reassuring her or myself.
Again and again, I cooled the towel, laying it against her burning skin until, at last, her breathing steadied. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing dazed eyes.
"Water…" she croaked.
I fetched a glass and steadied it against her lips. She drank greedily before sinking back with a heavy sigh.
"Brandon?" she rasped.
"I'm here," I said instantly, taking her trembling hand in mine. "I'm not going anywhere." I brushed damp curls from her forehead, stroking gently until sleep reclaimed her.
The next hours blurred into a rhythm of tending the fire, cooling her fever, and forcing her to eat enough to take painkillers. She resisted, but exhaustion eventually won. When she finally drifted off again, I sat back and studied her.
I hadn't truly looked at her until now. Her lashes fanned down onto her cheeks, long and dark. Her lips were soft, full, and slightly parted as she breathed. Strands of chestnut and gold spilled across the pillow, catching the glow of the firelight. She looked younger than I'd first thought — late twenties, maybe. What was she doing out here, so far from everything and everyone?
She was a mystery wrapped in pink snow gear. And I was trapped in a blizzard with her.
A faint whimper snapped me from my thoughts. I must've dozed off again. I checked her forehead — still warm, but not scalding. Relief swept through me.
The fire had burned low. I dragged myself up, joints stiff from the chair, and tossed the last of the logs onto the embers. Flames flared weakly. That was it —the final pieces of wood.
I glanced at Amelia. Still sleeping. Then at the axe propped by the door.
I slipped on my coat and gloves, took the axe in hand, and stepped outside.
The storm hadn't relented. Snow slammed into my face, stinging my skin. It was knee-deep, heavy, relentless.
Each step was a battle. My breath came in ragged clouds as I waded through to the woodpile stacked by a stump.
I brushed snow from the logs, hauled one onto the stump, and lifted the axe. It felt heavier than I'd expected, but I planted my feet, steadied my grip, and swung.
The crack of splitting wood rang through the night, sharp and satisfying. Something primal stirred in me. Again, I swung, and the log cleaved clean in two. A rhythm found me — swing, split, stack. The work was hard, brutal even, but oddly grounding. With each strike, I felt alive, purposeful, necessary.
By the time I had a decent pile, my arms ached and sweat stung my eyes despite the cold. I gathered the wood in my arms and trudged back toward the cabin, where warmth — and Amelia —waited.