17. Nora
Nora
It's been two days since Colt and I first crossed that line there's no walking back from, and time's gone soft and hazy in the best way, a blur of firelight, plates scraped clean, touches that linger like they're leaving marks on purpose.
The storm that trapped us here has fully surrendered now, replaced by a sun so bright it bounces off the fresh snow in sharp little shards.
The world outside these log walls is waking up, trees shedding their heavy white coats with soft thumps, branches creaking straight again under the sudden warmth.
Which means the clock on this bubble we've built is ticking down whether I want it to or not.
Soon the Marshals will come for me, and the thought lands in my stomach like one of my own cartoon anvils, the kind that squashes the goofy moose flat while the audience laughs.
Except I'm not laughing. I don't want to leave this cabin. I don't want to leave him.
I sit up slow in the big bed that's become our whole universe, the quilts pooling around my waist. My body's sore in the good, deep down way that reminds me exactly how thoroughly the last two days have gone.
Morning light comes through the frost laced window in gold stripes across the log walls, catching on Colt's chest beside me, the rise and fall of his breathing, the old scar tracing his ribs that I still haven't gotten the full story on.
His arm's heavy across my waist even in sleep, fingers curled loose against my hip like some part of him refuses to let me drift too far even unconscious.
I turn my head and just look at him a while.
His face is relaxed in a way I rarely see when he's awake, and I know the worry's still coiled underneath that peace somewhere, in the faint tension at the corners of his eyes, the way his hand twitches against me now and then like he's fighting something in a dream.
I nudge him gently. “Colt?” My voice is still husky from sleep. “Can you walk me through what actually happens when they come for me? I need to know exactly what to expect. It helps me not spiral quite as hard.”
He wakes immediately, no groggy in between, dark eyes finding mine like he was never fully under. His arm tightens, pulling me flush against his chest, his hand splayed warm across my lower back.
“It'll be okay, darlin'.” His voice is low and rough with sleep, and it does something to my insides it probably shouldn't, given the subject matter.
“Marshals roll in once the roads clear enough.
Safe house first. New identity, new place, a whole list of rules, no contact with your old life, no slipping into old habits.
New name, new story, kept close until the trial, if it even gets that far.
You'll be safe. I'll make sure of that before I hand you over to anybody.”
I trace slow patterns across his chest while he talks, feeling his heartbeat under my palm.
The words twist through me anyway. New identity.
No contact. My little apartment, the overflowing sketchbooks, the freelance gigs drawing sassy raccoons in tiny hats for somebody's kids' book, all of it dissolving like it was never really mine to keep.
“It sounds so final,” I murmur against his shoulder.
“Like I just disappear. Nora Caldwell, graphic artist and accidental murder witness, vanishes into federal protection, never heard from again. Zero cameos from my growly trapper in the sequel.”
He kisses the top of my head, his hand moving in long, slow sweeps down my back.
“It's to keep you safe. That's all that matters right now.
You're tougher than you know, even if you can't see it yet from in here.
And I'll be thinking about you every day.
Every hour I'm out checking traps or splitting wood, you'll be right here.” He taps two fingers over his heart.
The worry doesn't leave, exactly, but his arms make it bearable.
We stay tangled in the bed a while longer, talking soft about nothing and everything, the fire popping low in the hearth.
I trace the scar along his ribs again, and this time he actually tells me the story, a training exercise gone sideways back in his Marine days, the kind of near miss that taught him to listen to wind and branch creak for trouble the same way he now listens for trouble on this mountain.
Eventually the day pulls us out of bed. My legs are a little wobbly when I stand, and Colt wraps one of his flannel shirts around me before the cold can properly land, the fabric heavy and warm, sleeves swallowing my hands whole.
“Look at you,” he says, watching me roll the cuffs, something warm and a little rough in his voice.
“Swimming in my shirt. Makes me want to keep you right here forever.”
We cook breakfast together in the cramped kitchen, the space forcing us into constant proximity that neither of us seems to mind.
His hip bumps mine reaching for the skillet.
His hand lingers on my back longer than it needs to.
I chop vegetables with a dull knife, steadier now that two days of practice have actually taught me something.
We eat at the rough table, knees touching underneath it, trading bites and quiet laughs, and every small touch between us feels charged in a way it didn't a week ago, like all the shyness got used up somewhere in the last two days and left only this.
We venture outside that afternoon to check the perimeter, snow crunching under our boots, his hand never leaving mine or the small of my back.
We're most of the way through the circuit when the satellite phone buzzes in his coat pocket.
He answers it standing close enough that I catch most of both sides.
“Mason.” A pause. “Go ahead.”
I watch his jaw work while he listens. “Still nothing solid on Levon,” he tells me once he hangs up, tucking the phone away.
“Roads are supposed to be passable by tomorrow afternoon, which means the office is going to start pushing hard on timelines.
Mason's buying us what time he can, but he can't buy forever.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, the word landing heavier than I want it to. “That's fast.”
“It is.” He doesn't soften it, which I've come to trust more than false comfort. “Which means today's worth making count.”
Back inside, we stoke the fire higher, and something in the air between us shifts toward that same fever pitch that's been building all day, unhurried but unmistakable, neither of us willing to let tomorrow's deadline steal today from us before it has to.
“I want to try something,” I say later, my cheeks going warm, straddling his hips on the bed with my hands flat on his chest, feeling his heart pound under my palms. “I want to feel you deeper. Can we try that. I trust you completely.”
Whatever answer he gives me, and he gives it without a shred of hesitation, the two of us spend the rest of that golden afternoon exactly where we want to be, learning each other with a confidence that wasn't there two days ago, laughter tangled up with everything else, the two of us finding out exactly how much trust can turn into pleasure when neither person's holding anything back anymore.
Later, wrapped together and slow to catch our breath, he presses his lips to my forehead, my eyelids, the tip of my nose.
“Mine,” he murmurs against my skin, voice rough but carrying something deeper underneath it, almost unguarded. “No matter where they take you, you're mine, darlin'. I'll find my way back to you. I don't let go of what's mine, not for a badge, not for a folder full of paperwork, not for anybody.”
I snuggle closer, tracing lazy shapes on his chest, the worry about witness protection still there but pushed further off by the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart, the certainty in his voice.
In this moment, wrapped in quilts and Colt Rivers, the future feels a little less like an anvil and a little more like something worth fighting for.
Tomorrow the roads open. Tomorrow the world starts finding its way back to us, ready or not.
But the sun's still dipping low outside for now, painting the cabin in soft orange and pink, and we stay tangled together, savoring every second of this stolen time while it's still ours to keep.