There’s probably something wrong with my face—maybe it’s blue or something, given that I stopped breathing about thirty seconds ago. Maybe that’s why I linger on the floor for a moment, just staring at her and breathing in her sweet scent. It’s brighter like this, fresh from the shower, and the urge to rise and press my tongue against her skin is stronger than it should be. I don’t know how long it is before I remember myself, clearing my throat and pushing up from the floor to return to a standing position before grabbing her towel from where she dropped it on the bed and handing it back to her.

“Dry your hair,” I order gently. “Don’t want you to get sick.”

“Right,” she answers, taking the terry cloth from me. “What about the power?”

I shake my head. “I texted my friend at the co-op. He hasn’t texted me back yet.”

“Are we going to freeze to death? Is this how we die?”

I can’t help but chuckle.

“I’m going to build a fire downstairs. It’ll warm the room right up, don’t worry.”

“My hero,” she laughs.

I reach to rub at my neck. “But…we’ll probably need to sleep down there. This upstairs is going to freeze after a bit.”

“Together?”

It’s an innocent question, but what it does to me is less so.

“There are extra blankets and pillows in the storage closet downstairs. We can make pallets near the fire.”

It’s not quite an answer to what she was inadvertently asking, but only slightly, as far as I’m concerned.

“My phone,” she says suddenly. “It’s on the bathroom counter. Can you grab it?”

“No way to charge it,” I point out.

“I just want to let my brothers and my friend Ada know what’s going on,” she tells me. She laughs then. “Want to make sure she knows who to blame if you murder me out here.”

I snort out a laugh of my own. “More likely that a bear finds its way in looking for warmth and makes a meal out of you.”

“What?”

I flash her a sly grin in the glow of the flashlight. “Kidding.”

“Hysterical,” she grumbles.

“Come on,” I say, reaching out my hand to help her stand after picking the flashlight off the floor. “Let’s get you downstairs and warmed up.”

I don’t think it really hits me, not until she’s once again tucked against my side with her arm around my neck and her hand clasped around my waist to steady herself as we work our way out of her room toward the stairs. It takes that long, at least, to fully sink in.

That we’re all alone. That we’re trapped in the lodge without power and with only each other for warmth.

Okay, maybe that last bit was a stretch…but tell that to the sense of anticipation clenching in my gut.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

I give her a stern look from the floor. “I told you to be still.”

“It hurts,” she whines.

I shake my head as I continue to wrap her ankle with some gauze from the first aid kit. “I think it’s just twisted. It’s not even swollen. You’ll probably be fine by tomorrow. Better keep off of it tonight though.”

“Well, there go all my pressing appointments,” she remarks dryly.

I grin as I work, the warm light of the fire I built flickering across her face and my hands as I continue to gently wind the cotton gauze.

“There,” I say finally. “That should be good. Not too tight, is it?”

She curls her toes to test before shaking her head. “Feels good.”

I’m all too aware that my hand is still cupping her heel, her skin somehow warmer than the nearby fire. Her natural scent is intoxicating—and something deep inside me feels immense satisfaction at being able to take care of her like this. Even if the thought of her hurting makes me feel the opposite.

“Want some ibuprofen?”

“Please.”

I disappear from the room with my flashlight, quickly finding what I need and returning to her so I can hand her two pills and a glass of water. She downs them quickly, and I watch her wince as she tries to put a little bit of weight on her foot.

“Be careful,” I tell her. “You don’t want to hurt yourself more.”

I know that if she does, it will be hell getting her any sort of help with the storm beginning to rage outside, which only makes it more obvious how alone we are up here. How I’m trapped in the lodge with no one but her and her delectable scent and the memory of her leaning into me only last night.

I think…you kind of want to kiss me.

I’ve been trying to reconcile why I didn’t—why the thought of doing so sent a shock of terror through me—and all I can come up with is the fear of being so intimate with someone again. And yes, I’m aware that she and I have been intimate, but there’s something about kissing that brings everything to a new level. It’s a connection, a promise almost. One I’m not sure I can give her.

“Did your friend text you back?” she asks, breaking me from my reverie.

I nod. “A couple of downed trees on the line. He says they won’t be able to get up the trail to fix it until the snow stops. We might be out for a day or so.”

“Awesome.”

“We’re really roughing it now,” I joke.

“I bet this is your regular Saturday night,” she teases back, tucking a blanket all around herself. I notice sweat beading at her temples despite the way she’s bundling herself up and worry that she might be getting sick somehow.

I touch my fingers to her water glass, urging her to drink more. “All that’s missing is my whittling knife.”

“And an oil lamp.” She takes another gulp. “Can’t forget the oil lamp.”

I shake my head as I turn away from her to rummage in a pile of things I brought back with the first aid kit after I built the fire. I grab two cans from the pile before I turn back to her with one cocked brow, holding them out for her to see.

“Would you rather have chicken noodle or…” I squint to read the other can. “Creamy wild rice?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Cold soup?”

“I’m going to heat them up over the fire,” I tell her. “Which one?”

She gives me a look that says she doesn’t find this possible, but points to a can all the same. “Chicken noodle.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Sure you were.”

I actually do pull out a knife then, ignoring her follow-up whittling joke with a roll of my eyes, instead popping two holes in each can’s lid before I tear the wrappers off both.

“This feels like I’m watching a live National Geographic documentary,” she comments.

I grin as I place both cans as close to the fire as the hearth will allow. “It’s something my dad taught me when we would go camping.”

“Did you do that a lot?”

“Every summer when it got warmer,” I tell her. “Until I went off to college, that is.”

“You went to college?”

I frown. “Only for a year. Not even that, really.”

“Why did you leave?”

I can’t bring myself to look at her, shrugging as I keep my attention on the cans near the fire. “Parents died.”

“Oh.” She gives me a look akin to pity. “Right. I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be,” I say quietly. “Where did you go?”

“I got my bachelor’s at UCLA.”

“I bet your parents are proud,” I say.

Her expression turns soft. “They are. My dad worries a lot that I gave up my own dreams to live his, but I really didn’t. I’ve always known I wanted to carry on things in one way or another.”

“That’s really special,” I tell her wistfully. “I imagine your dad thinks so too.”

She smiles shyly. “It’s nothing glamorous, really—or, well, it wasn’t before the social media aspect of it all…but still. I like it. I like knowing that something my dad built will go on even if he can’t go on with it, you know?”

Her phrasing tugs at my heartstrings, and I can’t help but think of my own situation. Sure, it’s not something I chose on my own, but there really is something special about knowing that something my parents built will go on…even when they can’t go on with it, just like she said.