Snowbound

Chapter 5 #2

No… I don’t think I’m dreaming.

My name again. The sound of it is rough, frantic, laced with something sharp and scared.

“Emma? What the fuck—?”

I don’t even know if I’m awake anymore. I think I might be hallucinating. I’m in that strange place between dream and consciousness, suspended in cold and confusion. But I look up. I blink the snow out of my lashes and try to focus.

It can’t be. Not here. Not in this godforsaken middle of nowhere.

Is this what dying feels like? Do you start to see people you once loved? Is this some strange illusion?

“I’m s-s-so cold,” I stammer, my lips trembling.

Then arms, strong, warm, and achingly real, scoop me up from the ground. I'm pressed against a broad chest, and I feel the rumble of his voice more than I hear it as he curses under his breath in Gaelic before he utters what I can understand.

“Fucking hell, lass. You came out here in this mess? You’re a bloody snowman. Jesus Christ on a cracker.”

His voice is low and furious, muttering against my hair, but I think he’s talking to himself more than to me.

“We're closer to your cabin than mine. Let’s go.”

“What?” I mumble, my thoughts scattered and half-frozen. I can’t make sense of anything, but he’s so warm. So fucking warm.

My cabin?

I don’t argue. I can’t. I just close my eyes and press my face to his chest, my numb fingers curling against his coat. I’m still not sure this is real.

He walks and walks, trudging through the snow like it’s nothing, carrying me with ease. I hear his boots thudding on wood in a few minutes.

My god. Was I really this close?

I blink.

A porch. A step. Then we stop.

At the doorway, his fingers brush my jaw. He rests his forehead against mine, and I feel his heat, his breath, his presence.

Owen.

It grounds me.

His words are rough, hurried. “Let’s get you warm.”

“I-it’s l-l-locked,” I manage to whisper.

“Who the fuck cares?” he growls. “I know how to get in.”

I think he’s reaching into his pocket. Keys? Does he really have keys to this place? Or am I just imagining all of this? None of it makes sense.

But then, a few moments later, the door swings open with a creak and a gust of wind.

“Jesus,” he mutters again, breathless. “You’re fucking freezing.”

He kicks the door shut behind him with a loud bang that echoes in the quiet.

“Here—come here,” he says, urgency replacing his anger. I want to ask questions, but my lips won’t work. My tongue feels like lead, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I’m shivering now as he gently lays me down on the couch.

“O-O-Owen?” I blink up at him. “Is that you? Really?”

“Aye.” He grunts, kneeling beside me. “There’s time for questions later. First, we stop the fucking frostbite.”

I shiver harder as he kneels in front of me, tugging at my boots.

“Fucking useless pair of boots,” he mutters, tossing them aside. “Goddamn prop.”

He leans in, inspecting my lips, and his thumb brushes against them, lingering. Even half-frozen, a jolt of heat zips through me.

I stare up at him—at those wide green eyes, now shadowed with concern. His features are sharper than I remember, more mature. Time has worn something into him. It’s been a few years, but it shows. His beard is thicker, jaw more defined, and yet… his eyes are still the same.

Green as spring grass. Familiar.

And right now? Furious.

“What the hell were you doing out there?” he asks, his voice taut.

“I was decorating the tree,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed. I look away.

He glances toward the window and scowls, but mercifully doesn’t say anything. I can’t take judgment right now. Not from him.

He works quickly, peeling off my soaked outer layers, replacing them with every blanket he can find in the place until I'm swaddled like a child, warm and dazed.

I look around, surprised there’s light in here now, and heat. When did that come back on? God, it feels so good.

“Why was the goddamn door locked?” he snaps. “Why did you go out in the fucking snow with no way to get in?”

“I d-don’t kn-know,” I stutter, shivering.

“Jesus,” he mutters again. “No more questions for now. Let’s get you sorted.”

“How did you get in here?”

“I had to build a fire,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Stay put.”

“As i-if I’m g-going anywhere,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. He just shakes his head.

He moves toward the fireplace, drops to one knee, and within minutes, he’s coaxed it into a blazing roar. The heat spreads across the room, licking at my limbs like sunlight. I sigh in relief.

“Oh my god, that feels so good.”

I glance down and realize I’m in nothing but panties and a bra, hidden beneath layers of blankets. My cheeks burn. He’s seen me like this. He undressed me.

Owen’s practically a stranger now… except no. No, he’s not.

No. He never really was.

“Stay right there,” he says again, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument.

“It was you,” I whisper, testing my voice again now that I’m warmer.

“What hurts?” he asks, spinning around with that fierce glint in his eyes, like he’d destroy anything that’s caused me pain.

“My fingers,” I say softly. “My hands. They’re tingling.”

“Aye, that’ll happen,” he says with a nod.

I want to sass him, snap back something sarcastic. But I’m too tired. I’m just so damn tired.

That was so damn close.

Too close.

But at least now I’m warm. My limbs thaw as the pain dulls. I sink back into the couch, letting my eyes drift shut.

Because for the first time in a long, long time… I feel safe. I feel held. And even though I don’t have answers yet, Owen is here. And with Owen, I’ve always been safe.

“You were the one who stocked the fridge,” I murmur.

“Aye,” he replies, now fumbling around near the stove.

I hear the scratch of a match, then the soft roar of flames as the kettle starts to heat.

He always said that a good cup of tea could cure anything.

“You shouldn’t have gone out there alone,” he says in a low voice.

“Of course not,” I reply, exasperated. “I didn’t know the damn door would lock behind me. I was out there for two minutes. Just trying to hang some ornaments.”

He mutters under his breath again, frustration and worry all twisted up.

“Have you been watching me?” I ask suddenly. “What the hell are you doing here, Owen?”

I’m huddled under the blankets, not sure if I want the answer. Part of me is relieved he found me. Saved me. The other part? The part that still aches from before? It’s terrified.

“You put the food here? The water? The firewood?”

“Aye. I did,” he says simply.

“I saw it was you coming. Made sure it was ready.”

“Do you… own this place?” I ask cautiously.

He just shrugs.

That answer, or lack of one, says too much and not enough. I don’t know what it means, and I’m too drained to dig deeper.

I should be angry. I should be confused. But more than anything, right now, I’m grateful. I’m alive.

I remember how I felt about him—not just some schoolgirl crush, not some fleeting obsession. I was in love with Owen Callahan. Madly. Deeply.

Now, here he is, in front of me… in the middle of the woods.

And we’re alone.

“What the fuck?” I whisper.

He sits beside me on the couch, handing me a steaming mug.

“Drink this.” I obey.

The tea’s scalding, sweet, creamy, and perfect. It warms me all the way through, and I let out a soft sigh.

“That’s good.”

He visibly relaxes. He’s still wearing his heavy coat and boots, but he shrugs them off as the fire warms the room. I let my eyes travel over him.

Five years. That’s all it’s been. But in that time, Owen has gone from boy to man. The lean, cocky teenager I remember is gone. In his place is someone bigger, broader. Stronger.

He wears a long-sleeved white tee that’s snug across the chest. His worn jeans hang low, worn leather belt snug around his hips. He has a scruffy beard that was once scant, and his hands… they’re rougher, wider, capable.

I swallow hard.

Has he changed so much? Or have I just been surrounded by the wrong kind of men for too long? The ones who wouldn’t last a day out here.

None of them hold a candle to Owen Callahan.

He clears his throat, pulling my attention back to his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

I realize it’s suddenly very warm in here.

I shrug because I don’t know how to answer that question and drain the rest of my tea.

Now that I'm not going to die from frostbite, I say, staring at him, “Tell me why you're here.”

“You first,” he says, his eyes wary.

“Why am I here? What do you mean?”

“Why did you come to this cabin alone, Emma? What brought you here?”

I swallow and look away from him. “Jake and I were having… problems.”

“Feckin’ prick,” he mutters, darker this time.

Owen might be a lot of things, but apologetic isn't one of them.

“Why’d you end up with a man like him? Why did you choose the safe route?”

I blink at him. Safe route? Does he have any idea? That I was in love with him?

Safe route.

Of course not. He doesn’t know. He has no idea my mother found my journal—that she read every single page. Every made-up fantasy about us being in love. Every sketch I drew of him. Every word I wrote, thinking I was safe.

She lost her damn mind. Said I was sick. Twisted. Said I couldn’t fall in love with my brother.

He was never my brother.

“Safe route?” I snort. “I fell in love with a fucking narcissist.”

His jaw tightens, and he asks, “Why’d you finally leave him?”

I swallow hard. I don’t know how he’ll react, but why hide the truth?

“He cheated on me.”

He sets his own cup down slowly, so deliberately, it makes my stomach clench. Something in the movement—too careful, too calm.

“Owen?” I ask. “What? I don’t want any trouble. Please.”

“Of course you don’t,” he growls. “You never did. You always liked keeping the fucking peace, didn’t you?”

I look away, not sure if it's a judgment or just an observation. Either way, I nod.

“I—yes. I don’t want trouble. So sue me.” Anger bubbles up inside me. I didn’t ask for him to come and save me from freezing to death, only to lecture me. He always did like to lecture me.

I used to imagine it meant he cared.

“You didn’t either. That’s why you left.”

He turns sharply, his eyes piercing mine. “Is that why you think I left?”

“Of course. You didn’t want anything to do with your father anymore. You didn’t want anything to do with me. So you left.”

My cheeks heat. I’m an adult now, and so is he. There’s no use hiding what I imagined was between us. There’s no shame in admitting what once was. But when I start to ask him, I falter. “Did you… did you know?”

“That you loved me?” he asks, holding my gaze. Bold.

I stare at him. I’ve got nothing to lose. “Yes,” I whisper.

“Of course I did,” he says softly. “And the feeling was mutual, Em.”

Em. No one calls me Em. No one but Owen.

“What are you… What are you talking about?” I whisper.

He turns toward me, his voice low and steady. “This is the bold truth, luv. My father told me to keep my fucking hands off my sister. Said I couldn’t touch you. Couldn’t even be near you.”

“I was not your sister,” I say in a heated whisper, my hands clenched into fists.

He’s so near me now. When did he move?

“I know,” he whispers back, just as fiercely. “And then you fell for that man. Jake. I couldn’t stand to see you with that feckin’ arsehole. I knew he was no good. Wouldn’t protect you if he needed to.”

“I don’t need protecting,” I snap.

“Says the girl who just locked herself out in the middle of a fucking snowstorm.”

“Touché.” I swallow and look away. “Why are you here?” I ask quietly. He was the one stocking the cabin, making sure I had what I needed. I can’t insist I don’t need him anymore when the evidence, at least right now, is undeniable.

“Right,” he says. “I own a cabin not too far from here.”

“And you just randomly saw me here and decided to come? Like, stalk me?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Something like.”

I swallow hard, my eyes stinging with tears. He’s always been honest. Why isn’t he being fully honest now?

And then his words replay in my mind. You fell in love with that fucking loser.

What would’ve happened if I hadn’t? What if we’d said fuck it and defied them all—my parents, the rules, everyone at school—and just did what we wanted?

And I have to admit, now that he’s here, now that I’m not alone, it feels safer. The cabin is warmer. The fire he built is bigger, stronger. Robust. It’s warming everything.

There are still things he hasn’t told me. I can feel it. But I don’t push.

“So… you had a crush on me too?” I ask.

“Had?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

He looks away. “I… oh my god. I haven’t seen you in five years.”

“Why would you need to see me?” he asks. “You were married.”

I look away. “It feels surreal having you here.”

“Aye,” he mutters.

I swallow hard, glancing at my boots drying by the fire. “You’re right. I took the safe route,” I say. “Jake felt… dependable, you know? He wasn’t scary.”

Owen holds my gaze.

He doesn’t say it, but I hear it anyway. Yes. Scary like him.

It wasn’t just Owen’s presence—it was everything. His strength, the people he knew, his fearlessness. His father tried to rein him in, but it was pointless. Owen had ties back in Ireland that ran deeper than blood.

“Safe doesn’t keep you warm at night, Emma. Does it?”

I swallow again. “No.”

He leans in slightly. “Truth is—I own the cabin up in the woods. I oversee the rental of this one. When I saw your name, I checked into it. I saw your socials. Noticed you weren’t posting about Jake anymore. I made up my mind about him.”

He looks away, as if he’s hiding something from me.

I listen as he continues.

“So I came. Made sure the cabin was ready for you. And I’ve been watching you since you got here.”

“Why didn’t you just say hello like a normal person?” I ask, stunned. “You didn’t come here just to see me, did you?”

“No,” he admits. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

I look out the window. “Right.”

“Are you?” he asks, his voice a low growl.

I look at him. “Am I what?”

“Are you scared?”

I lick my lips, then swallow hard.

“Out of my damn mind,” I whisper. “Yes.”