Chapter 7
SEVEN
ERICA
The storm doesn’t ease in or give us time to finish what we’re doing.
One moment, the wind is loud but manageable, the snow falling thick and steady. The next, it’s like the world decides it’s done pretending.
The sky darkens. The wind sharpens. Snow pelts sideways, stinging any exposed skin. Somewhere in the trees, something cracks loudly enough to make my chest tighten.
Boone doesn’t panic.
That might be the most impressive thing about him.
“Okay,” he says calmly, raising his voice over the wind. “Change of plans.”
I brace one gloved hand against the side of the cabin, boots slipping just a little on the packed snow. “I’m listening.”
“We finish the generator check now, then get back inside. We’re not doing anything fancy out here.”
I nod, already moving. I don’t need him to tell me what to do. I know where the storm kit is. I know which vents we already reinforced and which one still whistles when the wind hits just right.
Boone notices.
I can tell by the way his eyes track me, by the slight lift of his brows when I move without hesitation, grab the right tool, tighten the right bolt.
“You’ve done this before,” he says.
“Winter?” I ask. “Yes. This specific kind of chaos? Not exactly. But cold is cold.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Fair.”
We work side by side, movements efficient, wordless. Snow dusts his shoulders, clings to his lashes. I’m suddenly aware of how solid he is beside me, how steady. This is the man I talked to for months. The man who wrote about mountains and quiet mornings and the kind of home you make on purpose.
The wind howls again, louder this time.
“Inside,” Boone says. “Now.”
I turn too fast.
My boot slides on a patch of ice I didn’t see beneath the fresh snow.
The world tilts.
I suck in a sharp breath as my feet go out from under me?—
—and Boone is there.
His hands catch my arms, strong and sure, pulling me against him before I can hit the ground. My chest collides with his. His breath is warm against my cheek. One of his hands slides to my back, holding me steady.
For half a second, everything stops.
The storm. The cold. The distance we’ve been pretending exists.
I look up at him.
He’s already looking at me.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
And then he exhales sharply and mutters, “Ice is the fucking worst.”
I blink.
He steps back just enough to break the spell, hands dropping reluctantly. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I manage, even though my knees feel a little shaky. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Let’s get inside before the ground decides to take another swing at us.”
I snort despite myself, and the tension breaks just enough for us to move again.
Inside, the cabin feels like a sanctuary.
The wind rattles the windows, snow piling up fast enough to be visible. Boone shrugs out of his jacket and sets about making sure the fire is going. I grab kindling and get it built up, my hands moving automatically. This part I know.
Flames catch, bright and eager.
Warmth spreads.
Boone returns from the kitchen with two mugs of tea and a tray balanced in his hands. Grilled cheese sandwiches, cut diagonally. Soup steaming in bowls.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say.
“I wanted to,” he replies simply.
We eat on the floor in front of the fire, boots kicked off, Georgie wedged happily between us like she’s been waiting all day for this exact configuration. Boone brings out a puzzle after dinner—something with a ridiculous number of white and blue pieces—and we spread it out on the rug.
Georgie immediately claims a corner.
“Helpful,” I tell her.
She flicks her tail.
The storm rages outside. Inside, the world feels smaller. Safer.
Boone fits a piece into place, then another. He’s quiet longer than usual.
Finally, he says, “I should tell you something.”
I glance at him. “Okay.”
He stares at the puzzle like it might help him find the words. “About why I wrote to you. As Knox.”
My chest tightens, but I nod. “I’ve wondered.”
He takes a slow breath. “My dad left when I was young. My mom… she was lonely. She wanted love so badly it hurt. And I was old enough to notice.”
I stay quiet.
“She’d ask me what to write on dating profiles. What to say in messages. I learned early how to put feelings into words, how to help someone sound like the best version of themselves.”
My throat burns.
“I got good at it,” he continues. “Too good. And somewhere along the way, I started believing that was my role. Helping other people find love. Making sure everyone else got their chance.”
I look at him now, really look. The man who cooks for me. Who built infrastructure halfway across the world. Who never once acted like he was owed anything.
“And you?” I ask softly.
He swallows. “I figured… if I did my job right, if everyone else was okay, then it didn’t matter if I was.”
My heart aches.
“I thought you were too good for me,” he admits. “Still do, sometimes. And after what happened with you and Knox, I realized I needed help. So I got it. Therapy. A lot of it.”
That surprises me.
“It made me see something I’d never really faced,” he says. “I’ve spent my whole life believing other people deserve love. And that I don’t.”
The fire crackles.
Outside, the storm rages.
Inside, something fragile shifts.
“You deserve love,” I say, without hesitation.
He looks at me then, really looks. “Do you believe that.”
“Yes.”
He studies my face like he’s committing it to memory.
“I didn’t think I was allowed to want it,” he says quietly. “Not for myself.”
I reach for his hand.
He stills, then turns his palm up, lacing our fingers together.
“I’m glad you told me,” I whisper.
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
Our mouths meet softly at first, tentative, like we’re both making sure this is real. Then the kiss deepens, heat building, the storm outside a distant roar.
His hand slides to my waist. Mine curls into his sweater.
The puzzle is forgotten. Georgie hops away, offended by the sudden lack of attention.
The world narrows to warmth and breath and the way he kisses me like he’s finally letting himself want something.
We’re still kissing when the fire pops loudly behind us.
And for the first time summer, I don’t feel cold at all.