Chapter 11
Eleven
Ava
While Silas does whatever soldiers do, I step into the bedroom to grab a sweater. My suitcase sits open on the chair—the clothes I hastily repacked after my Denver trip inside.
I push aside a stack of shirts, checking whether I remembered to pack my contact lenses.
When I come up empty, I run my fingers along the sides and frown as something pokes into my fingertips. There’s a pen sitting in the corner of the case. Tucked along the seam beside a notepad.
My brow furrows at the discovery. I distinctly remember having to borrow a pen at the conference in Denver so I could take notes during a lecture on neuroendocrine stress pathways.
This doesn’t look like a conference pen. It’s black. Elegant. Slim, with gold etching. Surely not… My chest tightens. I reach for it slowly, like it might disappear if I move too fast. I turn it over in my hand.
The engraving catches the light.
Fear not, for I am with you. Isaiah 41:10.
My pen!
I stare at it, my thoughts scrambling to catch up. I lost this a month ago. I checked everywhere—my bag, my car, my office at Johns Hopkins, the clinic.
And it’s inside my suitcase. But how?
If it was there inside my suitcase before Denver, why didn’t I notice it while Silas was clearing my house?
I perch on the edge of the bed and shake my head.
I know exactly what a high-cortisol state does to the hippocampus. Stress doesn't just sharpen your nerves; it fractures the encoding of mundane details. It’s clinically plausible that I did see it, or placed it there, but simply failed to record it.
My gaze drops back to the suitcase. The way everything’s folded. Disturbed now, but before—
No.
I would’ve seen it. I’ve reached into this bag a dozen times since we arrived at the cabin. I would’ve noticed the silver clip against the dark fabric.
Wouldn’t I?
I turn the pen in my fingers again, pressing my thumb over the engraved words like I can ground myself in them.
Fear not. My pulse ticks up anyway. The suitcase didn’t leave my sight after I zipped it. Not in my house. Not in the truck. Not here.
I close my hand around the pen, suddenly aware of how quiet the cabin is without Silas inside.
I should mention it to him. But he’s already on edge. I can’t bother him over something as trivial as finding a lost pen.
I leave it where I found it, and rather than dwell on the meaning or try to remember whether I might have packed it accidentally before Denver, accept it for what it is.
A gift.
Silas
I head into the kitchen and measure out the grounds, the repetitive motion the only thing keeping my thoughts in line.
Lord, I’m getting tired. I lean my weight against the counter, watching the first few drops of coffee hit the carafe. Help me stay frosty. Help me see any threats coming before they get close.
My mind is a map of exits and blind spots, but my body is starting to feel every hour of this watch.
The floorboards groan behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s her. The air in the room shifts.
Ava pulls out a chair and sits at the table. I can feel her watching me, her silence heavier than the storm outside.
“Any news?”
I keep my back to her for a second longer, waiting for my pulse to level out.
I shake my head. “Nothing significant.”
She eyes me, opens her mouth to speak, but instead of asking me anything further, she gestures to the mug.
“Coffee only works for so long. After that, it just masks fatigue and drives up cortisol.”
I smile. “You forgot to mention irritability and tremor.”
The corner of her mouth curves. “Then you already know caffeine isn’t a replacement for rest.”
I do know. I also know that we don’t have any other option.
“I’ve been trained to survive on three hours of sleep.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Maybe so, but that won’t mean much if you overstimulate your system and burn through your stress response.”
“You didn’t pull all-nighters as a resident?”
“That’s different. Patients can crash at any time. They don’t keep an orderly schedule.”
“And this situation isn’t on a schedule either,” I say.
"Right." She sets her mug down with a soft clink. "So you'll just run yourself into the ground and hope adrenaline carries you through."
There's an edge to her voice now—frustration breaking through the calm.
"I've done this before, Ava. I know my limits."
"Do you?" She stands, crossing her arms. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're trying to be some kind of one-man fortress, and that's not sustainable. Not for days."
I don't know whether to be irritated or impressed. "What would you suggest?"
"Let yourself rest in shifts. Even two hours would help. I can stay awake. I can watch for—" She gestures vaguely toward the windows. "Whatever you tell me to."
"That's not how this works."
"Then tell me how it works. Tell me what to look for, Silas, because right now I feel completely useless."
The words come out sharper than she probably intended, and the silence that follows is heavy with the realization she has a point.
I let out a long breath.
“In this storm, we're flying blind. No one can see more than ten feet in that." I gesture toward the wall of white beyond the window.
She follows me as I move through the cabin, explaining as I go.
"The snow is actually working for us. It's too heavy, too deep for anyone to approach without making noise. Snowmobiles we'd hear a mile away. Vehicles can't make it up the access road—not in this."
I crouch by the back door, running my hand along the base of the frame. "Feel this?"
She kneels beside me, her shoulder brushing mine as she reaches out. "The thread?"
"If this door moves even an inch, that falls. Same with the front. Simple, but it works."
Standing, I lead her to the main room. "You're not watching—you're listening. Sit here, by the fire. Keep it fed but low. Every twenty minutes or so, stay still and just listen. Wind, creaking, snow sliding off the roof—you'll start to learn what's normal."
"And if something isn't?"
I meet her eyes. "You wake me. No hesitation. I don't care if you think you might be wrong."
She nods, and I can see her mentally rehearsing it all.
"One hour," she says. "Then I'm waking you anyway."
I extend my hand. "Deal. But only if you let me take your phone."
She hesitates, then pulls it from her pocket.
I slip the phone into my pocket and leave her in the kitchen, praying I haven't just made a mistake.
I’m dreaming in fragments of snow and ice when my eyes snap open. The cabin is hazy, a thin gray fog hanging near the ceiling. I sit up, listening. No crackling. No roar of flames. Just the low moan of wind outside and Ava coughing in the next room.
I'm up and moving, pulling my shirt over my nose and mouth as I head for the main room. The smoke is thicker here, rolling out from the fireplace in slow waves.
"Ava."
She's struggling to get off the couch with her blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. Her eyes are red, watering, but she's steady.
"I’m so sorry, I must have fallen asleep. What’s happening?"
"Not your fault.”
And it isn’t. She may be suffering from oxygen deprivation.
“The wind shifted. Smoke's coming back down the chimney." I crouch by the fireplace and start banking the coals, smothering them with ash. "We have to kill the fire, or we'll both be breathing this all night."
While I deal with the fire, she moves without being asked, crossing to the window and cracking it open. The smoke begins to clear, but so does the warmth.
I glance at the thermometer on the wall. Sixty-eight degrees. Falling.
This is going to be a problem.
I grab a flashlight and head outside. Fighting against the gusts, I make my way around to the side of the cabin where I can see the roofline.
The chimney is barely visible through the blowing snow, but I can see enough.
The wind is hitting the cabin from the northwest now, creating a downdraft that's forcing smoke back into the structure instead of letting it vent.
There's nothing I can do about it. Not in the middle of the night. Not in this. Getting on that roof would be suicide, and even if I could reach the chimney, I couldn't change the wind direction.
I head back inside, brushing snow off my shoulders. Ava's closed the window partway and is standing near the dead fireplace, arms wrapped around herself.
"Can you fix it?"
"Not until the wind shifts or morning comes—whichever happens first." I strip off my wet jacket and check the thermometer again. Sixty-two. "We'll have to manage without heat for now."
She nods, but I can see the concern in her eyes. She's already shivering.
I move to the chest in the corner of the room and pull out everything inside. Two wool blankets. A sleeping bag rated for thirty degrees. A couple of extra throws that won't do much, but they're better than nothing.
"Layer up," I tell her, handing her the warmest blanket. "We need to conserve body heat."
She takes it without argument, wrapping it around her shoulders over the one she's already wearing.
I check the thermometer again. Fifty-eight. The temperature is dropping faster than I'd like.
“I can take the sleeping bag. Maybe—"
She interrupts me in a clipped tone. “We don’t have room for maybe. The practical solution is that we sleep together,” she says.
My eyes snap to her as heat washes through me. She's standing there perfectly calm, like she just suggested we switch to decaf.
"Excuse me?"
She flushes, realizing her error too late. "Body heat is the most efficient way to prevent hypothermia." She tilts her head slightly. "Unless you have a better idea?"
A better idea?
For a moment, the only sound is the heavy, rhythmic thud of blood rushing in my ears.
One word is echoing in the silence, louder than the wind outside. Carnal. It’s a match dropped in a dry forest.
My pulse isn't just fast; it’s a warning I don’t intend to ignore.
Ava
For a second, the silence is so sharp I’m terrified he’s going to turn and walk back out into the storm—that he’d rather face the wind and the freezing metal of the chimney than stay in the room with me.
I reach out, my hand hovering in the empty air between us before I gesture toward my bedroom. My heart is a frantic, uneven wreck against my ribs, thudding so hard I’m sure he can see it through my shirt.
The invitation is right there, hanging between us like a confession.
"Hypothermia," I say, trying to imbue the word with clinical weight. "It’s practical. Medical. It’s what I’d tell any patient in this situation."
His eyes snap to mine. "Hypothermia," he repeats. His voice is stripped of its usual iron-clad composure. He pivots away, snapping into a familiar, rigid efficiency, his movements sharp and precise as he moves toward my bedroom.
"We stay fully clothed," he dictates, his back turned to me. "Layer the blankets—one under, the rest over. I’ll stay on top of the covers if you want."
"That defeats the purpose," I counter, my voice firmer than I feel. "We need direct contact for maximum heat transfer, Silas."
He freezes. The heavy wool blanket in his hands goes still, and the silence in the room suddenly feels physical.
"I mean—" I scramble, my cheeks burning. "Not—I just meant we can’t have barriers between..."
"I know what you meant," he cuts in.
I clear my throat, desperate to pull the conversation back into the realm of the rational. "Right. So. Layers under, layers over. Both under the same quilts."
He nods, avoiding my eyes as he meticulously constructs a nest on the bed. He lays the sleeping bag down first, then the wool throws. The bed, once a sanctuary, now looks impossibly small.
"You take the inside," he says. "Against the wall. I’ll take the outside."
"In case something happens," I state, the reality of our situation settling over me like a shroud.
"In case something happens," he confirms.
I climb onto the mattress, sliding against the cold wall. The springs groan as he sits on the edge, his back to me. He’s stalling.
When he finally lies down, he stays strictly on top of the covers, leaving a deliberate, painful six inches of air between us. It’s absurd. We’re both fully dressed, with layers of fabric insulating us. Nothing is going to happen.
"This isn't going to work," I whisper into the dark. "You're still too far away."
He lets out a long, ragged exhale. He shifts, closing the gap, and pulls the covers over us both. Suddenly, there’s only a sliver of space—two inches of air where every breath he takes feels like a brush against my skin.
"Better?" he asks, his voice barely audible.
"Slightly," I manage, though my teeth are starting to chatter.
The cold is relentless, seeping through the walls and through the blankets, stealing what little heat we’ve managed to pool. My body is a taut wire of nerves, hyper-aware of his presence.
"Ava. This isn’t working." His voice is a low vibration in the darkness. "Turn around. Back to me."
I hesitate, then roll onto my side, facing the wall. The bed shifts as he adjusts, pressing his chest solidly against my back, his arm sliding around my waist. His touch is as impersonal as he can force it to be, but it’s impossible to be impersonal when you’re sharing a heartbeat.
"Relax," he murmurs, his lips dangerously close to my ear. "You're fighting it. Just breathe."
Easy for him to say. He isn't the one pressed against a man who feels like a weapon held in reserve.
But I try. I focus on the rhythm of his breathing, on the way the heat begins to bleed into my bones. Gradually, my muscles uncoil, my heart rate finally syncing with the steady, unhurried thrum of his.
"I’ll fix it first thing," he says. His voice rumbles through me.
The silence stretches, filled only by the wind howling against the timber. He’s going to stay awake. He’s going to stand guard over the night while I sleep. The thought makes my throat tight.
"Try to sleep," he tells me. "I'll stay awake."
"You can't," I shift, feeling him tense behind me. "Not after everything today. We take turns. Two hours each. I need you rested, Silas."
He’s quiet for a long beat. “Roger that.”
"I mean it," I insist, turning slightly to catch his gaze in the dim light.
"I know you do."
"You’re incredibly stubborn."
Silas lets out a low, rough chuckle that tickles my ear. “As a mule.”
With a smile curling my lips, I close my eyes. “Get some sleep.”
“Is that an order?”
“Yes. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor, Ava,” he says softly.
My fingers tighten around the comforter as I tuck it under my chin, thinking a thought that I have no business thinking: No, none of this would have happened if I were.