Chapter 8
SOREN
The first warning was the flicker. One, then two dips of light—and then darkness swallowed the lodge whole.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the wind moaning through the eaves and the soft gasp of a few guests in the hallway. Then someone’s phone flashlight clicked on, bouncing pale light against the wooden walls.
“Generator finally gave up,” Soren muttered. She was already at the fuse panel by the front desk, hand running along cold metal, though she knew it wouldn’t help. The storm had worn the system down all day. “She’s done for the night.”
Mr. Ellis appeared from behind the counter, wrapped in a thick sweater and looking ten years older than he had that morning. “I’ll check on the backup unit,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction. “Might have to wait till morning to get her running again.”
“Don’t bother going out there,” Soren said, closing the panel. “It’s a whiteout. You won’t see your own boots.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “You always know what to do, Stevenson. You’ll make sure everyone’s alright?”
Soren gave him a half-smile. “I’ll do my best.”
By the time he shuffled off toward the kitchen, the last scraps of light came from the few fireplaces they’d kept burning and the red glow of emergency lamps along the corridor floor. The air already felt colder.
Soren found a bundle of candles in the supply closet, tucking a lighter into her pocket. She lit one as she walked, the flame bobbing gently, and followed the sound of voices to the lounge.
The fire there was still burning, a low amber glow painting the ceiling in slow waves. And in front of it, sitting cross-legged on the hearth rug, was Nia.
The light caught her hair and made it shine like dark silk. She’d wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, her face turned toward the flames, profile soft but distant. She didn’t look up right away when Soren entered—just held her hands out toward the warmth like someone lost in thought.
“Guess the generator quit,” Soren said quietly.
“I noticed,” Nia murmured, glancing up. Her green eyes reflected the firelight, sharp and gold at the edges. “It’s fine. I don’t mind the quiet.”
Soren set one of the candles on the table beside her and knelt to light it. The tiny flame steadied, throwing more light across Nia’s face. “You’re the only guest who’s said that all day.”
“I’ve had worse nights.”
“Hospital?”
She nodded, gaze back on the fire. “Emergency generators, power failures, people panicking. This is practically a vacation.”
Soren chuckled. “Didn’t think you were the vacation type.”
“I’m not,” Nia said, but the edge in her tone softened. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Soren leaned back on her heels, watching her for a moment. The doctor looked so different in this light—hair loose, shadows softening the precision of her features. She wasn’t the unflappable surgeon from Phoenix Ridge. She was just a woman, tired and beautiful, trying to forget how to be perfect.
“You should stay by the fire,” Soren said gently. “The rooms will cool fast.”
Nia gave a small smile. “And you?”
“I’ll check the other wings, make sure no one froze in their sleep. Then I’ll come back.”
Nia’s hand emerged from the blanket, resting lightly on the edge of the hearth. “You don’t have to fix everything tonight.”
Soren tilted her head. “Old habits.”
“I noticed,” Nia said, a teasing note slipping in. “You don’t sit still well.”
“Neither do you, Doc.”
Their eyes met again, something quiet passing between them—shared exhaustion, mutual understanding, a pull that neither of them wanted to name.
Soren reached for the candle, adjusting it so the wax wouldn’t drip onto the rug. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
When she returned ten minutes later, the lodge was dark except for the faint light spilling from this room. Nia hadn’t moved. The fire had burned lower, painting her in red-gold glow.
Soren closed the door against the wind and sat down beside her on the rug, the floor warm beneath them. “Generator’s gone for good tonight,” she said. “It’s just us and the storm.”
Nia looked at her then, a small, tired smile tugging at her mouth. “There are worse things.”
Soren felt that smile settle somewhere deep, warm, and dangerous. She leaned back against the couch, their shoulders almost touching, and let the silence wrap around them.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the only light was the fire and the steady flame between them.
The wind outside had quieted into a steady sigh, a soft, constant exhale against the windows. The world beyond the glass was erased—just white and shadow and silence. Inside, the fire snapped and whispered, throwing shifting gold across the lounge.
Soren sat on the floor beside Nia, one knee drawn up, shoulder almost brushing hers.
The warmth from the flames made her skin hum; so did the closeness.
Every time Nia shifted, her blanket brushed Soren’s arm.
Every time she breathed, Soren could smell her—clean, faintly floral, threaded through with smoke from the fire.
Neither of them had spoken in several minutes. It wasn’t an awkward silence, just thick and alive, the kind that made words feel too loud. Soren tipped her head toward Nia and tried to sound casual.
“Snow like this’ll bury us for a few days,” she said. “You ready to be trapped with me that long?”
Nia gave her a sidelong look. “You make that sound like a threat.”
“Only if you hate small talk.”
“I prefer silence.”
“Good,” Soren said, smiling. “We’re halfway compatible already.”
That coaxed the faintest curve of a smile from Nia before she turned back to the fire. The light caught in her green eyes, and for the first time since they’d met, Soren saw something other than restraint there. Something soft. Tired. Human.
“You really never stop fixing things, do you?” Nia asked quietly.
Soren gave a half shrug. “Can’t. Comes from my mom. She could never let something stay broken. Car engines, toys, hearts. You name it.”
“You mentioned her before,” Nia said. “You said she taught you everything.”
“Pretty much.” Soren’s smile was gentle but sad. “She ran a workshop down by the ridge. The kind of place that smelled like oil and cedar. People would bring her everything—tractors, heaters, clocks. She’d patch them up and send them home like new. I used to think she was magic.”
Nia watched her carefully. “She sounds remarkable.”
“She was.” Soren let the firelight blur for a moment before continuing. “When she got sick, I thought if I just worked hard enough, learned enough, I could fix that too. Like there had to be a tool for everything, even for keeping someone alive.” She swallowed. “Turns out, that’s not how it works.”
Nia’s voice softened. “No, it isn’t.”
“It doesn’t stop me thinking I should’ve done more.” Soren gave a humorless laugh. “So now I fix what I can. Pipes. Shelves. Anything that holds still long enough.”
“You turned survival into a skill,” Nia said, more to herself than to Soren.
Soren looked at her, studying the careful way she held herself even now—spine straight, chin high, blanket clutched like a shield. “We both did, didn’t we?”
Nia hesitated, eyes flicking down to the fire. “I suppose so.”
Soren waited. The flames crackled, the silence stretched, and eventually Nia sighed—the kind of sound that meant something was about to give.
“When I started in medicine,” she said, “I thought if I could be perfect, no one could hurt me. If I controlled everything—every variable, every outcome—then I’d never have to feel helpless again.” Her mouth tightened. “Then Julia left, and it turned out control doesn’t mean safety either.”
Soren turned toward her. “You loved her.”
“I loved the idea of us,” Nia said. “We looked perfect on paper. Two surgeons, two careers, the same goals. But the reality…” She shook her head, the firelight glancing off her dark hair. “She wanted something else. Or maybe she just wanted someone easier.”
“She wanted someone less,” Soren said quietly.
That drew Nia’s eyes back to hers. “You don’t know her.”
“I don’t have to.” Soren smiled, small but sure. “You’re not easy. That’s not a flaw.”
Nia’s laugh was soft, a little broken. “You make it sound like one of my best features.”
“It is,” Soren said. “You’re the first person I’ve met who scares me in a good way.”
That earned a real smile—a quiet, reluctant thing that reached her eyes before she looked down again. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Yeah,” Soren said. “I get that a lot.”
They fell quiet again. The fire burned lower, the room shrinking to just the circle of warmth around them.
Soren could feel the pulse of Nia’s body through the thin air between them.
She wanted to touch her, but not for the same reasons as before.
This time it wasn’t hunger. It was something slower, heavier, dangerously close to tenderness.
“You don’t always have to hold it together,” Soren said finally.
Nia’s throat worked as she swallowed. “If I don’t, I might not get it back.”
“Maybe that’s okay.”
Soren reached out, her fingers brushing Nia’s hand where it rested on her knee. Nia didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Her skin was warm, her breath shallow. They sat like that, connected by the smallest thread of contact, while the wind pressed gently against the windows.
For the first time since the storm began, Soren didn’t feel trapped. She felt anchored.
The fire popped softly, throwing a brief spark that made Nia flinch and smile at once.
“You’re full of contradictions,” Nia whispered.
“Yeah,” Soren said, voice low. “So are you.”
The candle flickered beside them, flame bending toward the warmth of their joined hands.
The fire had burned down to embers.
Outside, the storm had finally gone still—no wind, no sound, just a world buried under snow. The silence pressed close, thick enough that every small movement felt amplified: the crackle of wood settling, the faint rustle of fabric when Nia shifted beside her.
They hadn’t spoken in several minutes. Soren could still feel the ghost of Nia’s fingers resting against hers, that tiny, trembling link neither of them had broken.
The candle on the table burned low, its light trembling across Nia’s face, softening her features, turning her eyes into dark pools of green and gold.
Nia looked up at her finally, gaze lingering a little too long. “You should sleep,” she murmured. Her voice was quieter than the fire.
“So should you.”
Nia smiled faintly, that guarded kind of smile she wore when she didn’t know what to do with her feelings. “You’ll be fixing things again by sunrise.”
Soren tipped her head. “What if I don’t want to fix anything tonight?”
That made Nia’s breath catch—a tiny sound, more exhale than word. The blanket slipped a little off her shoulder, revealing smooth skin kissed by firelight. She didn’t move to pull it back up.
Soren’s pulse thudded. Every instinct told her to be careful, to give Nia space. But when she reached up and brushed a strand of hair from Nia’s cheek, Nia leaned into the touch instead of away.
Her skin was warm, her eyes luminous.
“You don’t have to be afraid of wanting something,” Soren said softly.
Nia blinked, as if the words hit somewhere deep. “I don’t—”
Soren smiled a little. “You do.”
And then Nia moved—so small, just the tilt of her head, but it closed the distance between them.
Soren met her halfway, their lips touching with the hesitant softness of a first confession.
The kiss was gentle, questioning, until Nia made a small sound in her throat and reached for her, pulling her closer with surprising certainty.
The rest was heat and instinct.
The blanket slid away as Soren’s hands found her waist. Nia’s breath hitched against her mouth, and Soren broke the kiss only long enough to whisper, “Tell me to stop.”
Nia shook her head, voice barely a whisper. “Don’t you dare.”
That was all the permission Soren needed.
They came together with the same intensity that had sparked between them from the beginning—but this time it was surrender, slow and deliberate.
Nia’s hands were on her shoulders, her pulse racing beneath her skin.
Soren kissed her again, deeper, feeling the shift from hunger to something far more dangerous.
They sank down to the rug in front of the hearth, moving in sync without words. Soren stripped Nia of her leggings and wet panties and knelt between her legs, dipping her head to once again taste Nia. The taste of her was intoxicating.
Soren licked and Nia moaned and when Nia came in her mouth it was just as satisfying as it had been before.
When Soren finally pulled back, both of them breathing hard, Nia’s eyes were bright and open in a way Soren had never seen before.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Nia whispered, voice shaking.
“Doesn’t have to,” Soren said. She brushed her thumb along Nia’s jaw, smiling softly. “Nothing real ever does.”
Nia’s lips parted like she might argue—but instead she kissed her again, fierce and certain, tasting her own sex on Soren’s lips and the world disappeared into light and heat and quiet.
Outside, the snow fell in slow, endless silence. Inside, the storm had found a new home—in the space between them.