Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Bristol
My eyes flutter open and the first thing I notice is how cold it is. Even with the warm body pressed against mine.
Not winter morning in Maine cold—but the kind of cold that you only feel when something’s gone aerie.
I look at Rhett. He’s still asleep on his side, facing me. One arm is tucked, bent, under his head while the other is draped over my waist, holding me close.
I smile before I can stop myself.
Then I notice my breath fogs faintly in the air.
“Okay,” I whisper to no one. “That’s not normal.”
I carefully slide out from under his arm, immediately regretting it when the cold hits me full force. Goosebumps race up my legs as I grab one of his shirts from the floor and tug it on, basking in his scent lingering on the fabric—clean, woodsy, comforting.
The house is dim. Gray light filters through the windows, muted and flat.
I flick the lamp switch.
Nothing.
Try another.
Still nothing.
“Well,” I murmur. “That explains it.”
When I turn back, Rhett is awake now, propped up on one elbow, watching me with sleepy eyes and a slow, lazy smile.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough and warm.
“Morning,” I reply. “We have no power.”
That wakes him up faster than coffee ever could.
He swings his legs out of bed and pads past me, checking the thermostat, then the window.
“Storm must’ve knocked it out,” he says. “Looks like the roads got bad overnight. No doubt they’re closed.”
“No power,” I repeat. “Bad roads.”
He looks at me, really looks at me. A soft smile settles on his face.
“Library’ll be closed, too,” he says. “I won’t need to open the hardware store.”
I nod slowly.
“So,” I say, my pulse ticking a little faster. “Nowhere to be.”
“Looks like it.”
Silence stretches between us.
Rhett steps closer, hands sliding to my hips, his forehead resting against mine. “You okay being snowed in with me?”
I laugh softly. “I don’t think I’d want to be anywhere else.”
“Let’s get you some warm clothes, then I’ll go light a fire in the fireplace.”
Bundled up in Rhett’s sweatpants and his hoodie that fits me just right, I curl up under a blanket on the couch. He starts a fire, the crackle and warmth filling the space with a hint of nostalgia and holiday magic.
He makes us both some coffee on the gas stove and offers me some sugar cookies for a makeshift breakfast since there’s not much else to choose from given the situation.
Outside, the snow keeps falling. Inside, the world has gone quiet and small and perfect.
“This is nicer than I expected,” I murmur.
“What’s that?”
“Being here with you.”
The fire pops softly, a log shifting as the logs settle.
Rhett stretches his arm along the back of the couch, close but not crowding me. Letting me decide how much space I need. I close the gap without hesitation, tucking myself into his side, my cheek resting against his shoulder.
“Feels right, doesn’t it?”
A part of me hates to admit it but, “Yeah. It does.”
“So,” I say lightly. “Is this where you tell me you’re secretly a survivalist and have a generator hidden in the shed?”
He huffs a laugh. “Afraid not. I do, however, have enough canned soup to survive the apocalypse and approximately twelve pounds of pasta.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Still hungry?” He tilts his head, pressing a kiss to my hair.
“Always,” I admit.
We end up in the kitchen, the firelight throwing warm shadows across the room. Rhett moves with quiet confidence—lighting the gas stove, pulling out two cans of soup from the pantry.
I sit at the small table, knees tucked up beneath me, watching him.
Domestic Rhett is almost sexier than naked Rhett making my toes curl.
“What?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just… you’re very competent.”
His mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”
“I work with books,” I remind him. “A man who can fix drywall, coach hockey, and make breakfast during a power outage feels suspiciously fictional.”
“Well,” he says, sliding a pan onto the burner, “don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
Once the soup is warm and poured into two bowls, we sit together and eat, slowly.
When we’re done, Rhett refills our mugs with more coffee and we move back to the couch to watch the fire burn.
“This is the part where I should probably check my phone,” I say.
He groans. “Don’t ruin it.”
I laugh but still pull it from my pocket. No service. No notifications. Nothing pulling me anywhere else.
“Looks like the universe agrees with you,” I say, setting it aside.
Rhett’s thumb traces lazy circles against my arm. “Good.”
We talk then—really talk. About nothing and everything.
He tells me stories about growing up in Mistletoe Bay, about sneaking onto the frozen bay as a kid before his mom caught him and grounded him for a week.
I tell him about leaving for college, about the way I promised myself I would always come back once I figured out my life.
“I didn’t think I’d miss it,” I admit. “This place.”
“And now?” he asks gently.
“I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”
“And the figuring out your life part?”
I shake my head with an amused grin. “I think I’m just really starting to figure out who I am. Who I’m meant to be. What this life has in store for me.”
He doesn’t push. Just nods in understanding.
The urge to tell him that it feels like he’s a piece of my future, is on the tip of my tongue. But, I’m too afraid to say it outloud. I don’t want to ruin what we have right now. To push too far, too soon.
At some point, the fire burns down to embers, and Rhett adds another log. The light shifts, the day moving slowly outside the windows, the sky deepening from gray to blue.
“You know,” he says after a while, “I don’t usually bring people here.”
My heart stutters.
“Here?” I ask.
“My space. My life.” He shrugs, then looks at me fully. “It always felt too risky. But you don’t feel like a risk.”
The wall around my heart begins to crumble.
“I thought signing up for the dating app was a risk. I’m glad I did now, though.”
“Good.”
We spend the fading afternoon bundled in blankets, making love and reading quietly side by side in between.
Who knew the man had such an impressive bookshelf.
The book Rhett’s chosen is one I recognize—a hockey memoir I’d ordered for the library last year.
The fact that he borrowed it makes me smile.
Mine? It’s one I’ve read before but it’s always the perfect re-read. I’ve always loved the Divergent series and was surprised to find it on Rhett’s shelf.
At dusk, the power still isn’t back on.
Rhett lights a few candles, the glow turning everything golden.
“This feels like a snow globe,” I say.
He hums. “Yeah. One I don’t mind being stuck in.”
“I should probably worry about how fast this feels,” I say softly.
“Are you worried?” he asks.
I consider it. The calm. The certainty in my heart.
“No,” I admit. “I think I’m just surprised.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Me too.”
The light outside fades completely, turning the windows into mirrors. Snow presses against the glass in thick, quiet sheets, as if the world beyond Rhett’s house has agreed to leave us alone for a while longer.
He exhales, content, and shifts so I’m more comfortably tucked against him. His arm tightens around my waist, anchoring me, grounding me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this safe.
“Power company texted,” he says after a moment. “Says they’re hoping to have everything restored by morning.”
There’s something in his tone—casual, but searching.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s… good.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It is. I’m hoping that means I get to keep you for a little while longer now.”
“I have nowhere to go.” I shrug like it’s no big deal.
I sit up slowly, pulling the blanket with me, and look around the living room.
The candles have burned low, wax pooled at their bases.
The fire is little more than glowing embers now, but the warmth lingers.
Everything feels lived-in, like we’ve already made memories here—even though it’s barely been a day.
“Bristol?” he murmurs.
“Yeah?” I look over my shoulder at him.
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.”
For a moment, I let myself imagine tomorrow. And the next day. And the one after that.
No grand plans. Just mornings like this. Coffee. Snow. Shared glances across a room.
I’m not the least bit surprised when the thought doesn’t scare me.
“You know…” I shift and stand only to curl up in Rhett’s lap. “If we’re not careful, I may decide I never want to leave here.”
“I’ll keep you forever, if you’ll let me.”
His confession knocks the breath right out of my chest.
“You don’t mean that.”
He cups my cheeks, his eyes searching mine. “Bristol, honey, I absolutely mean that. I know it’s fast. And if you asked me a week ago, I’d have told you that I didn’t believe in love at first sight, or whatever you want to call this.”
“But now?” I ask, letting myself feel a hope that I tucked away long ago.
“I’d tell you that I’m completely certain that you are who I’ve spent my whole life waiting for.”
His words hang between us, fragile and enormous all at once.
I’ve spent years telling myself I don’t need declarations. That I don’t need promises whispered in the dark. That I’m better off without the risk of believing someone could want me this fully, this quickly.
And yet.
My chest aches—not with fear, but with the weight of being seen.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” I admit softly.
Rhett doesn’t smile. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t try to convince me. Instead, his thumbs brush gentle arcs along my jaw, grounding, patient.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. I’m not asking you to jump without a net.”
I swallow, my throat tight. “That’s not how it feels.”
He leans his forehead against mine. “Tell me how it feels.”
“I feel like I finally stopped bracing for the other shoe to drop,” I whisper. “Like, maybe I don’t have to earn being chosen.”
His expression shifts—softens, deepens.
“You were never invisible,” he says. “You just weren’t standing in front of the right person.”
I rest my head against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“I’ve always been the one who leaves,” I confess. “The one who moves on before I’m left behind.”
Rhett’s hand slides slowly up and down my back. “You don’t have to be that here.”
I tilt my face up, studying him in the dim light. The familiar lines. The certainty. The quiet strength that doesn’t demand anything from me but honesty.
“What if this scares me tomorrow?” I ask.
“Then we talk about it tomorrow,” he says without hesitation. “And the next day, if we need to.”
“And if it stops making sense?”
“Then we figure out why,” he replies. “Together.”
The word lands softly but firmly.
Together.
I shift in his lap, straddling him now, my hands resting on his shoulders. He doesn’t pull me closer. Doesn’t rush. Just lets me take the space I need.
“I don’t want to be a fantasy,” I say. “Or a snow-day miracle that fades when the power comes back on.”
He exhales slowly. “Neither do I.”
His arms wrap around me. “I want grocery store arguments and stolen kisses in the hardware aisle. I want you complaining about my coffee order and me pretending not to hear you.”
I smile despite myself. “You really don’t love peppermint?”
“I love you liking peppermint,” he counters. “That’s different.”
We sit like that for a long while, tangled together.
The conversation turns to Matty and the way he insists on sleeping in his hockey jersey the night before games.
About the library’s creaky third-floor radiator that never quite works.
About Gwen’s wedding plans and my documentary projects still half-formed in my head.
There’s no rush. No pressure to define what this is beyond right now.
“You still thinking about never leaving?” he murmurs.
I smile into the warmth of him. “I’m thinking about choosing to stay.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head—slow, reverent. “That’s all I’d ever ask.”