Chapter 7
NIA
The first thing Nia noticed was the sound of the wind.
It moaned against the windowpanes, soft now—no longer the furious storm of the night before, just a tired whisper moving over snow. The second thing she noticed was warmth.
Soren’s arm was slung around her waist, solid and heavy, their legs tangled under the quilt.
The steady rhythm of her breathing brushed against the back of Nia’s neck.
For a long moment, Nia didn’t move. She just let herself feel: the heat of another body, the faint rasp of stubble against her shoulder, the soreness that reminded her exactly how they’d spent the night.
It should have felt wrong. It didn’t.
It felt dangerous.
She stared at the ceiling, tracing the pattern of shadows cast by the morning light leaking through the curtains. What are you doing, Nia?
She’d told herself last night was a mistake.
Then she’d gone to Soren’s door. And everything after that—the way Soren had looked at her like she was something to be unwrapped, not fixed; the way her hands had found every place Nia had forgotten how to feel—it had burned through every defense she had left.
Soren shifted behind her, murmuring something incoherent against her skin. The vibration of it sent a shiver through Nia’s body.
“Morning,” Soren said, voice still husky with sleep.
“Morning,” Nia managed, though her throat felt dry.
Soren’s hand slid along her side, fingertips tracing idle circles. “You thinking about running away yet?”
The question was teasing, but it landed too close to the truth. Nia swallowed. “Maybe.”
“Didn’t peg you for a coward.”
“I’m not.”
“Then stay a little longer.”
Soren’s voice was low, coaxing, and before Nia could form a reply, she felt Soren press a soft kiss to her shoulder. Then another, slower. The pull was impossible to resist.
When Soren’s strong fingers found their way inside her once again, it wasn’t frantic like before—it was quiet, almost reverent. The kind of intimacy that terrified her more than the heat of the night had.
Afterward, the shower filled with steam and silence. The water pounded against the tiles, and Nia let it wash over her, trying to clear her mind, but Soren’s presence made it impossible.
They stood close under the spray, droplets racing down Soren’s collarbone, catching in the curve of her smile.
Nia watched the way she lathered her hands, the muscles shifting under her damp skin, and she thought absurdly that she could stay in this moment forever if the world outside would let her.
But the world always came back.
Soren reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from Nia’s face. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Doc?”
Nia forced a small smile. “You wouldn’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
She turned off the water, the silence afterward louder than the storm outside. “I have a life to get back to,” she said softly. “A job. A reputation. Responsibilities.”
Soren handed her a towel, eyes steady. “I figured.”
“This—” Nia hesitated, gesturing between them. “This isn’t what I do.”
Soren’s grin was gentle. “Pretty sure that’s the point.”
Nia looked away, clutching the towel tighter. “You make everything sound simple.”
“Doesn’t mean it is,” Soren said. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated either.”
Nia met her gaze then, and for a heartbeat she wanted to believe it—that they could stay here, two women in a snowstorm, nothing beyond this warmth and touch and temporary magic.
But the thought of Phoenix Ridge pressed against the edge of her mind like a bruise. The hospital. Julia. The version of herself who didn’t make impulsive choices.
She sighed, stepping out of the shower. “You think this storm will break soon?”
Soren wrapped a towel around her waist, watching her with that same calm certainty. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either.”
Nia nodded, half to herself.
Another day. Another night.
The thought should have made her anxious. Instead, she felt something dangerously close to relief.
The storm had stopped howling, but the mountain wasn’t done testing them.
By late afternoon, the lodge lights began to flicker—just small stutters at first, the kind that make you look up and tell yourself it’s nothing. Then, around the fifth flicker, the lamps went out completely.
For a few seconds, there was only silence and the faint, uncertain rustle of voices rising in the dark. Then the emergency lights kicked in—low amber bulbs glowing along the baseboards and stair rails.
Nia set down her half-finished cup of tea and stood, every instinct in her body sliding toward command mode. “Where’s Mr. Ellis?”
The front desk clerk appeared from behind the counter with a flashlight that was more decorative than useful. “He’s trying to get the generator to hold. The pipes in the back wing are half frozen again. Half the staff couldn’t make it through the drifts today.”
Of course they couldn’t. The storm had buried the parking lot in three feet of snow; no one was getting anywhere soon.
Soren came striding in from the side corridor, a tool belt slung low on her hips and snow dusting her jacket. Her hair was damp from the weather, cheeks flushed with cold, and even in the dim light she looked irritatingly calm.
“Power’s cycling,” she said, scanning the ceiling. “Backup’s struggling to keep up with the heaters. We need to close off some rooms or it’s gonna trip again.”
“Close off?” Nia echoed.
“Pick the unoccupied ones, shut the vents, move anyone frail closer to the fireplaces.” She gave her a quick grin. “You up for field triage, Doc?”
Nia’s mouth opened—then shut again. This wasn’t a surgical crisis, but it was something she could help control. “Tell me what you need.”
Soren’s grin widened. “Blankets and bodies near the fire. Come on.”
They worked side by side through the corridors. The old lodge creaked with each gust of wind, candles flickering in the staff’s hurried hands. Nia carried stacks of quilts from the storage closet while Soren knelt to relight the hearths. The smell of smoke and pine filled the halls.
At first, Nia felt absurd—this wasn’t her element.
She was used to sterile light, stainless steel, precision.
Not cracked stone fireplaces and flickering shadows.
But when she saw an elderly couple shivering near their window, something shifted.
She knelt, wrapped them in thick wool blankets, and checked their pulses automatically.
“You’ll be fine,” she said softly. “Just keep close together.”
The woman smiled at her through the candlelight. “You sound like a doctor.”
Nia hesitated, then nodded. “I am.”
“Then we’re in good hands, dear.”
The simple trust in the woman’s voice hit her harder than she expected. For the first time since arriving, she felt useful. Not powerful, not perfect—just human and needed.
When she straightened, Soren was watching from the doorway, a bundle of firewood balanced on one shoulder. Her eyes caught the candlelight—dark, warm, unreadable.
“Look at you,” she said quietly. “Fixing people without a scalpel.”
Nia rolled her eyes, though her pulse jumped. “Don’t romanticize it. I’m just handing out blankets.”
“Sure,” Soren said. “But you make it look like mercy.”
Nia busied herself, unwilling to unpack that. But she couldn’t ignore the way Soren moved through the room—efficient, sure, calm under pressure. When one of the heaters sputtered, she was already there, hands sure on the valves, coaxing it back to life.
For once, Nia wasn’t the one holding everything together. And strangely, that didn’t feel like failure.
By the time they reached the lobby, warmth was returning to the air and laughter was starting to replace worry. Soren tossed her gloves onto the counter, flexing her hands. “Crisis averted.”
“For now,” Nia said, brushing a strand of hair back from her face.
Soren’s grin was quick and quiet. “You did good, Doc.”
“I handed out blankets.”
“Yeah,” Soren said softly. “And made half the guests fall in love with you.”
Nia turned away before Soren could see her smile. She bent to straighten the pile of quilts, pretending it was for order’s sake. But inside, she could feel it again—the dangerous warmth that had nothing to do with the fires they’d lit.
By the time the lodge settled again, night had thickened around the windows. The wind was gentler now, brushing the eaves in long sighs. Most of the guests had gone to their rooms, the lobby reduced to the soft pop of firewood and the low murmur of the radio the clerk had left on for company.
Nia lingered near the desk, uncertain what to do with herself. She wasn’t used to this kind of quiet after a crisis. In the hospital, silence after chaos was clinical—monitors steady, lights harsh, adrenaline still burning in her blood. Here it was softer, more human.
She noticed Soren sitting by the hearth, long legs stretched toward the fire, hair still damp from melted snow. The collar of her shirt was open, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the edge of a tattoo curling up her throat. A half-empty mug sat beside her.
“You’re still on duty?” Soren asked without looking up.
“I was making sure everyone was comfortable.” Nia crossed the room, pulling her sweater tighter around her.
“They are. You did good.”
The praise warmed her more than the fire. She lowered herself into the armchair beside Soren, feeling oddly self-conscious. “You make it sound like I’m your apprentice.”
Soren grinned, eyes glinting in the firelight. “I wouldn’t mind a partner. You’ve got decent bedside manner.”
“I’m not sure handing out blankets counts as medicine.”
“Depends who you ask.”
Nia smiled despite herself. The glow of the fire made everything look dreamlike—soft, gold, slightly unreal. “You seem very at home in all this,” she said. “The chaos. The cold. The broken boilers.”
“I grew up with it,” Soren said. “My mom ran a small workshop out past the ridge. We fixed anything that could break—cars, pipes, fences. People brought us their problems and expected miracles. Guess I got used to it.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“Mom taught me everything that mattered.” She poked at the fire with the iron poker, the flames leaping. “When she got sick, I thought I could fix that too.”
The words hung there—simple, unembellished, heavy.
“I’m sorry,” Nia said quietly.
Soren gave a small shrug. “Cancer doesn’t care how good you are with a wrench.” She took a sip of her drink, staring into the fire. “After she died, I found myself just running away from life. Didn’t plan to stay here, but the mountain’s hard to quit.”
There was something in her tone—a quiet ache wrapped in acceptance—that pulled at Nia. “You talk about her like she’s still with you.”
“She is.” Soren’s smile was faint. “Every time I pick up a tool, she’s there, telling me to stop over-tightening the bolts.”
Nia’s throat felt tight. She thought of her own family—distant, efficient, proud. Of Julia, whose version of love had always been conditional. “You were lucky,” she said finally. “To have that kind of love.”
Soren looked at her then, eyes steady. “You didn’t?”
Nia felt a tight chest thinking about her own strict upbringing.
“My parents were surgeons. My childhood was focussed on being the best. It wasn’t loving.
I mean, I guess they loved in their own way, but I never felt close to them.
” She stared at her hands, long surgeon’s fingers that had stitched, mended, repaired—but never held still long enough to simply feel.
“You ever think about stopping?” she asked.
Soren leaned back, considering. “Sometimes. Then I get restless. You?”
“I wouldn’t know how.” Nia gave a small, humourless laugh. “Every hour of my life is scheduled. If I stop moving, I start thinking. And that’s… dangerous.”
“Thinking’s not the enemy,” Soren said gently. “Sometimes it’s the only way out.”
The fire cracked, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. For a long moment they sat without speaking, the silence between them easy, companionable. Nia found herself watching the play of light across Soren’s face—the strong line of her jaw, the glint of amber in her dark eyes.
Without thinking, she reached for the blanket draped over the arm of her chair and tossed one end toward Soren. “You look cold.”
Soren caught it, tugged it across both their legs with a crooked smile. “You just wanted an excuse to share.”
Nia rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away when their knees brushed under the blanket. The warmth between them was steady, unhurried.
Soren glanced sideways. “See? Not so bad when you stop moving.”
Nia managed a small smile. “Maybe not.”
The firelight painted gold on her skin, and when Soren’s hand brushed hers beneath the blanket, she didn’t pull away. For the first time since the storm began, the world outside didn’t feel like a trap.
It felt—just for this heartbeat—like safety.