Chapter 2
Kyler
She's going to drive me insane.
I can tell this within the first thirty minutes of our forced cohabitation. Noel doesn't do quiet. She hums while she unpacks. She rearranges the throw pillows on the couch. She asks if I mind if I want tea, and then hands me a mug before I can answer.
She mentioned she’d only booked the cabin for Christmas Eve—just one night to get away—but something tells me one night isn’t going to be enough.
The cabin that was blissfully silent an hour ago now sounds like a one-woman production of A Christmas Carol.
I should be annoyed.
I am annoyed.
But I'm also having a hard time not watching her move around the space.
She's shed her coat, and underneath she's wearing this soft green sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder.
Her dark hair is still dusted with snow.
She's got this energy about her—like she's determined to make the best of a bad situation even if it kills her.
It's... distracting.
"Do you always stare at people like that?" she asks without turning around.
Busted. "I'm not staring."
"You've been staring for five minutes." She glances over her shoulder, and there's a glint of amusement in her brown eyes.
I scowl at her. “I have not.”
“If you say so,” she says, wrapping both hands around her mug of tea. “So, what's your deal, anyway? Why are you hiding in a cabin in the middle of nowhere on Christmas?"
"I'm not hiding."
"Right. You're just... what? Finding yourself?"
"I like the quiet."
"Mm." She takes a sip of her tea, watching me over the rim of the mug. "Sorry to ruin that for you."
She doesn't sound sorry at all.
I should tell her to stay on her side of the cabin. Should establish boundaries. Should do literally anything except stand here wondering what she'd do if I closed the distance between us and—
The lights flicker.
Noel's eyes go wide. "That's not good."
"The lines are probably heavy with snow and ice.” I move to the window and peer out. Can't see more than five feet. The snow's coming down so thick it's like someone draped a quilt over the world. "Power might go out."
"Don’t say that,” she squeals. “You’ll jinx us.”
The lights flicker again. Then die completely.
Noel gasps as the cabin drops into shadow. The only illumination comes from the fireplace, flames licking against the stone and throwing her silhouette into a soft, gold outline. She looks fragile in that moment, with her sweater slipping off one shoulder and her breath catching like a bird’s.
“Okay,” she says, voice tremoring just a little. “That’s fine. We have the fire. We’re fine.”
“We’re fine,” I echo, steady, because someone has to be. I grab another log and stoke the flames until the crackling roar fills the silence.
But it’s already colder.
She crosses her arms over her chest, rubbing warmth into her skin. “How long do blizzards like this last?”
“Could be all night.” I glance toward the window again, then at her. “You should get warm clothes on. Layers, socks, whatever you’ve got.”
She nods and disappears up the stairs. When she comes back, her hair’s loose around her shoulders, and she’s wearing flannel pajama pants patterned with candy canes. The sight shouldn’t hit me like it does.
“It’s freezing up there,” she says, shivering as she descends the steps. “I could see my breath.”
“Then stay down here, closer to the fire.”
She nods, wrapping a blanket around herself like a cocoon. Her teeth chatter once, barely audible.
I should focus on the fire. On the weather. On anything but the way she looks in the firelight—soft and flushed, the color back in her cheeks. But when she curls her legs under her on the rug, too close to the flames, I move without thinking.
“You’ll burn yourself,” I say, crouching beside her. “Here.” I tug her gently backward until she’s sitting near me instead of on top of the hearth.
Her eyes meet mine. “Bossy.”
“Practical.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Feels like the temperature’s dropping another ten degrees every time you say that word.”
She’s right. The chill is creeping in fast. The fire throws light but not much heat anymore.
I grab another armload of blankets from the basket near the stairs. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs. The bed’s bigger. Easier to stay warm together.”
Her brows shoot up. “Together?”
“Unless you want to wake up a popsicle.”
She hesitates for just a second, then exhales. “Fine. But if you start snoring, I’m rolling you onto the floor.”
“Deal.”
We carry the blankets up to the loft. The room’s frigid enough that I can see her breath puff white in the dim light. The bed is massive, built of thick wood beams and covered in a mountain of quilts. I pile the extra blankets on top until it looks like a fortress.
She climbs in on one side. I slide in on the other. The mattress creaks under our combined weight, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then she shivers. Hard.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She hesitates again—just a breath, just a heartbeat—and then shifts across the space between us. I pull her close, her back fitting against my chest, her cold toes brushing my leg.
“Better?” I ask.
“…Yeah.”
Her voice is sleepy and small. I can feel her breathing start to match mine, her body slowly thawing against me. Her hair smells like something warm and sweet, like vanilla and cinnamon.
For the first time in two years, I don’t feel like I’m freezing from the inside out.
Outside, the storm howls against the cabin, but inside, there’s just the slow rhythm of her breath and the steady pulse of her heartbeat against my chest.
“This was supposed to be simple,” I whisper to myself.
She stirs slightly. “What was?”
“Coming here.”
Her hand slides over mine beneath the blankets, fingers brushing lightly, hesitantly. “Maybe it still can be.”
I don’t answer. Because right now, with her tucked against me and the snow burying the world outside, simple feels like the last thing this is going to be.