Ava woke to the low, rhythmic cough of a generator struggling somewhere beneath the floorboards. The sound was distant, mechanical, almost comforting in its stubborn persistence like the cabin itself was breathing, fighting to stay alive against the storm.
She blinked into dim morning light filtering through frost-laced windows. The fireplace had burned down to glowing embers overnight; someone had added fresh logs while she slept. The air smelled of coffee and bacon, warm and rich and impossibly domestic. Her body ached from the cold she'd carried in yesterday, but the borrowed hoodie still held traces of warmth, and the oversized sweats pooled around her ankles like she'd borrowed someone else's life for the night.
She stretched, arms overhead, spine arching, and froze when she realized she wasn't alone.
Ethan stood at the stove, back to her, still shirtless. The broad planes of his shoulders shifted as he flipped something in a cast-iron skillet. Muscles rippled under tanned skin marked by faint scars one long, silvery line across his left shoulder blade, another smaller one low on his ribs. He moved with economical precision, the kind that came from years of doing hard things quietly. A mug of coffee steamed on the counter beside him.
He didn't turn around, but she felt the moment he registered her movement. His head tilted slightly, as though listening.
"Morning," she said, voice scratchy from sleep.
"Coffee's fresh," he answered without looking. "Help yourself."
She padded barefoot across the cold floorboards to the kitchen island, hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin where the hoodie slipped off one shoulder. She poured coffee into a thick ceramic mug, cradling it between her palms like a prayer. The first sip burned her tongue, grounding her.
Ethan finally glanced over. His gaze dropped briefly, almost involuntarily to where the hoodie gaped, then lower, to the bare stretch of her legs beneath the rolled-up sweats. Something tightened in his jaw before he looked away again, focusing on the eggs.
Ava's stomach fluttered. She told herself it was just gratitude. Just relief at being warm and fed. Nothing more.
Then Liam appeared.
He sauntered in from the hallway wearing low-slung gray joggers and nothing else, hair still sleep-mussed, a lazy smile already in place. "Well, damn. The snow bunny's awake."
Ethan shot him a warning look. "Plates."
Liam ignored it, moving past Ava to reach for the cabinet above her head. The kitchen was small too small. His bare chest brushed her arm as he stretched; his hand grazed her hip on the way down, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Oops," he murmured, close enough that she felt the word vibrate against her ear. "Tight space."
His grin was pure wickedness, eyes sparkling with challenge.
Ava's breath hitched. She stepped sideways, clutching her mug like a shield. "Personal space isn't a thing here, huh?"
"Not when the kitchen's built for two and we've got three," Liam replied, unrepentant. He leaned a hip against the counter beside her, close enough that their arms touched. "You sleep okay?"
"Better than in my car," she admitted.
Ethan set three plates down with a deliberate clink. "Eat. Then we've got work."
Breakfast passed in near silence, broken only by the scrape of forks and the occasional pop of the fire. Ethan ate standing up, leaning against the counter like he couldn't afford to sit still. Liam sprawled in the chair opposite Ava, watching her with lazy interest while he chewed. Every time she looked up, his eyes were already on her.
After the plates were cleared, Ethan jerked his chin toward the back door. "Wood needs stacking. Storm's not done. We burn through it fast with the generator running."
Ava nodded. She wasn't about to be the useless houseguest. "I can help."
Liam smirked. "City girl's gonna stack wood?"
"City girl's gonna try," she shot back.
Outside, the cold bit like teeth. Snow had drifted halfway up the porch railing. Ethan handed her a pair of oversized work gloves and led her to the woodpile under the lean-to. Liam followed, carrying the axe.
They worked in rhythm Ethan splitting logs with clean, powerful swings, Ava carrying armloads to the stack against the cabin wall, Liam occasionally taking over the splitting when Ethan stepped away to check the generator.
At one point Ethan paused, watching her struggle with a particularly heavy piece. Without a word he stepped behind her, reaching around to adjust her grip on the log.
"Like this," he said quietly. His large hands closed over hers, repositioning her fingers so the weight sat better in her arms. His chest brushed her back; his breath ghosted against the side of her neck. "You're stronger than you look."
The words were low, almost intimate. Ava's pulse kicked hard. She could feel the heat of him through the hoodie, the steady thump of his heart against her shoulder blade. For a heartbeat neither of them moved.
Then he stepped back, clearing his throat. "Better?"
"Yeah," she managed. "Thanks."
Liam watched the entire exchange from the porch steps, axe resting on his shoulder. His expression had darkened something possessive flickering behind the easy smile.
By late afternoon the stack was respectable, their breaths fogging in white plumes. Ava's arms burned, but the ache felt good honest. She caught Ethan looking at her again, something unreadable in his eyes before he turned away.
Evening fell fast. The storm hadn't let up; if anything, the wind sounded angrier. They retreated inside, shedding layers of snow-dusted outerwear. Ethan built the fire higher. Liam disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.
"Tradition," he said, pouring generous measures. "Storm nights get whiskey and stories."
Ava accepted the glass gratefully. The first sip burned pleasantly down her throat. They settled around the coffee table Ethan in the armchair, Liam and Ava on the sectional, close enough that their knees almost touched under the blanket Liam tossed over them both.
The firelight painted everything gold. Conversation started slow weather, road conditions, how long the power might hold then drifted into more personal territory.
Ava surprised herself by talking about the breakup. "He said I was too much," she admitted, staring into the amber liquid. "Too loud. Too independent. Too… everything."
Liam tilted his head. "Sounds like he was too small."
Ethan's gaze lifted, sharp and steady on her face. He didn't speak, but the quiet felt like agreement.
Liam went next college stories, reckless nights, the pressure of living up to a father who'd raised him alone after his mother died when he was twelve. He said it lightly, but the pain leaked through the cracks.
Ethan spoke last, voice low. "She got sick fast. One month we were planning a trip to the coast. Next month she was gone." He took a slow sip. "You learn to keep moving. For him." A nod toward Liam. "And for yourself."
The room felt smaller after that. The whiskey loosened tongues and inhibitions. Laughter came easier. Flirtation slipped in sideways Liam's teasing comments about Ava's "delicate city hands," her retort about his "reckless college boy energy," Ethan's rare, dry humor that made her laugh harder than she had in months.
Then the lights flickered once, twice and died.
Darkness swallowed the room except for the fire's glow. The generator had finally given up.
Ava sucked in a breath. Someone shifted closer under the blanket. A hand found her thigh warm, deliberate, sliding just high enough to make her heart stutter.
She froze.
Another brush different fingers, lighter, teasing the inside of her knee from the other side.
Both of them?
Her pulse roared in her ears. She couldn't tell whose hand was whose in the dark. Heat bloomed low in her belly, sharp and sudden.
A low voice-husky, close to her ear whispered:
"You're shaking. Cold… or something else?"
Ava's mouth went dry. She didn't answer. She couldn't.
The fire crackled. The storm howled outside.
And in the dark, two hands stayed exactly where they were waiting for her to decide what happened next.