Chapter 4 – Jason
For a long moment, I just breathe. Just exist in this space where she's here, in my arms, in my cabin, in my life. Her breath is steady against my ribs, and I can feel the flutter of her pulse where her wrist rests over my heart.
She fits against me like she was made for this exact position, and the rightness of it terrifies me.
I've spent five years avoiding this. Avoiding connection, avoiding vulnerability, avoiding the possibility of being responsible for someone else's safety or happiness.
After Marcus died on that mountain, I swore I'd never put myself in a position where someone could get hurt because of my choices again.
But Elizabeth crashed into my world, and now I’m lost.
I run my fingers through her hair, soft and slightly tangled from sleep. She makes a small sound and burrows closer into my side. The movement presses her breasts against my ribs, and I feel my body respond immediately, heat pooling low in my gut.
I want her again.
Want to roll her onto her back and explore every curve and hollow I memorized last night, want to hear her gasp my name the way she did when she came apart beneath me.
But more than that, I want this. The quiet intimacy of her sleeping in my arms, trusting me to keep her safe and warm through the night. The simple pleasure of watching her wake up slowly, her face soft and unguarded.
She stirs, her lashes fluttering, and then those blue eyes open and find mine.
"Hi," she whispers, her voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I brush a strand of hair back from her face, letting my fingers linger on her cheek. "How do you feel?"
A slow smile curves her lips, and it transforms her whole face. "Warm. Safe." She pauses, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Sore, maybe."
Heat flares through me at the admission. "Too sore?"
"Not too sore." Her hand slides up my chest, fingers tracing idle patterns through the hair there. "Just... thoroughly loved."
The word loved hangs between us, weighted with meaning neither of us is ready to name. I lean down and kiss her, slow and deep, tasting sleep and lingering sweetness.
She opens for me immediately, her body arching into mine, and I have to force myself to pull back before I lose control completely.
"We should get up," I say, though every part of me wants to stay right here, wrapped around her under this quilt for the rest of the day.
"Should we?" She traces her fingers down my stomach, and my muscles jump under her touch. "What if I want to stay right here?"
"Then we stay." I catch her hand before it can wander lower, bringing it to my lips. "But I should check the radio. Let my sister know I'm okay, and that you're here."
She nods and sits up. The quilt falls away, revealing her bare back, the curve of her spine, the soft expanse of skin I want to map with my mouth.
She reaches for my flannel shirt, still lying discarded on the floor, and pulls it on.
Watching her button it up, covering herself in my clothes, does something to me I don't have words for.
"I'll make more coffee," she says, not quite meeting my eyes as she stands and pads toward the kitchen.
I watch her go, trying to shake the feeling that something just shifted. The easy warmth from moments ago has cooled slightly, and I don't understand why.
Maybe she's just hungry. Maybe she needs space. Maybe I'm reading too much into small gestures because I'm terrified of losing this before it even fully begins.
I pull on my jeans and head outside to the radio setup on the covered porch.
The cold air hits my bare chest like a slap, but I welcome it.
The sharp bite of winter helps clear my head, grounds me in something physical and immediate.
The world is quiet except for the crunch of my boots on the porch and the distant call of a crow.
I key the radio, waiting for my sister's response. Static crackles, then her voice comes through, tinny but clear. "Jason? That you?"
"Yeah. Just checking in."
"About time. I was getting worried." There's relief in her voice, and I feel a stab of guilt for not contacting her sooner. "Storm was bad last night. Roads still blocked?"
"Yeah. The main road's impassable, probably won't get plowed until this afternoon at the earliest." I glance back at the cabin, where I can see Elizabeth moving around inside through the window.
"I've got someone here. Found her stuck in a snowbank on Christmas Eve.
She's okay, just stranded until the roads clear. "
"Someone?" My sister's voice sharpens with interest. "A woman someone?"
I ignore the question. "Once the plows reach the road, she'll be able to leave. Just wanted you to know I'm fine and not to worry."
"Jason—"
"I'll call you later." I sign off before she can start asking questions I don't know how to answer, and stand there for a moment in the cold, watching my breath fog in the air.
Once the plows reach the road, she'll be able to leave.
The words echo in my head, and I realize how they sounded—practical, matter-of-fact, like I'm counting down the hours until she's gone.
But that's not what I meant. I meant she'll have the freedom to choose. To stay if she wants, or to leave if this was just a Christmas Eve mistake she wants to forget.
I meant I don't want to trap her here. I don't want her to feel obligated to stay just because we slept together, just because I can't imagine letting her go.
But I didn't say any of that. I just said she'll be able to leave.
When I turn back to the cabin, I catch a glimpse of her through the window—standing frozen in the kitchen, her face pale, her shoulders tight. And I realize with a sinking feeling that she was close enough to hear.
Fuck.
I head inside quickly, the warmth of the cabin a stark contrast to the cold outside. Elizabeth is at the counter, pouring coffee with movements that are too careful, too controlled. She doesn't look at me when I enter.
"Coffee's ready," she says, her voice neutral.
"Elizabeth—"
"I should probably figure out what to do about my car." She wraps both hands around her mug, still not meeting my eyes. "Once the roads clear, I mean. I'll need to get it towed or something."
"We can figure that out." I move closer, trying to read her face, but she's closed off in a way she wasn't even yesterday when she first arrived. "Are you okay?"
"Fine. Just thinking about logistics." She takes a sip of coffee, and I notice her hand is shaking slightly. "I appreciate you letting me stay. I know I've been an imposition."
"You're not—" I stop, frustrated because I don't know how to say what I need to say. That she's not an imposition, that I want her here, that the thought of her leaving makes my chest feel tight and hollow. "You're not an imposition, Elizabeth."
"Right." But she doesn't sound convinced. She moves past me toward the living room, and the distance she maintains feels like a chasm.
I watch her settle on the couch, pulling the quilt around herself like armor, and I don't know how to bridge the gap that's opened between us.
So I do the only thing I know how to do when words fail: I reach for my carving tools.
The wood is smooth under my hands, a piece of cedar I've been saving for something special.
I don't consciously decide what to carve; my hands just start moving, guided by instinct and memory.
Shoulders that curve softly. Hips that flare with generous femininity.
The suggestion of full breasts, a soft stomach, strong thighs.
I'm carving Elizabeth—not an idealized version, but her exactly as she is, with all the curves and softness I spent last night worshipping.
The work is meditative, calming. Each stroke of the knife peels away wood to reveal shape, and I lose myself in the rhythm of it.
This is how I process things, through my hands, through the tactile act of creation.
I carved my way through grief after Marcus died, through guilt and anger and self-loathing, until I could breathe again without feeling like I was drowning.
Now I'm carving my way toward understanding what I feel for this woman who appeared in my life like a Christmas miracle.
I'm so focused on the work that I don't notice Elizabeth watching until I look up and find her standing in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the figurine in my hands. Her expression is complicated, something between wonder and pain, and I don't understand what I'm seeing.
"That's me," she says quietly.
"Yeah." I turn the carving, showing her the details I've added—the fall of hair, the tilt of the head, even the flannel shirt hanging loose. "You're beautiful, Elizabeth. I wanted to capture that."
She makes a small sound—almost a laugh, almost a sob—and looks away. "Jason, you don't have to—"
"I'm not saying it because I think you need to hear it." I set down the carving and the knife, giving her my full attention. "I'm saying it because it's true. Because looking at you is like looking at something I didn't know I was missing until you were here."
"Don't." Her voice breaks slightly. "Please don't make this harder than it already is."
"Make what harder?" I stand, moving toward her, confusion and frustration tangling in my chest. "Elizabeth, what's going on?"
She wraps her arms around herself, and I can see her physically withdrawing even as I try to get closer. "I heard you. On the radio. Telling your sister that once the roads clear, I'll be able to leave."
"Because you will." I reach for her, but she steps back. "Because you'll have the choice—"
"I get it, Jason." She cuts me off, her voice sharp now. "This morning was... it was incredible. But I'm not going to make this awkward by pretending it was more than what it was."
"What it was?" Anger flares hot in my chest, mixing with fear and hurt and disbelief. "Elizabeth, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about reality." Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "I'm the woman who got stuck in a snowstorm. You're the man who rescued me. We had a moment—a really, really good moment—but that doesn't mean—"
"That doesn't mean what?" I close the distance between us in two strides, and this time she doesn't retreat.
"That I want you to stay? That I haven't been able to think about anything except you since the moment you walked into my cabin?
That it wasn't just sex for me—it was the first time in five years I've felt like I could breathe? "
She stares at me, her lips parted in surprise, and I realize I've just said all the things I've been too scared to admit even to myself. But now that they're out, I can't take them back. Don't want to take them back.
"Jason—" Her voice is barely a whisper.
I reach for her again, cupping her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me.
"You're not an imposition. You're not a burden.
You're not something I'm trying to get rid of the moment the roads clear.
" My thumb brushes away a tear that's escaped down her cheek.
"You're the first thing that's felt right in longer than I can remember. "
"You really mean that." It's not a question, but I answer anyway.
"Every word."
I lean down to kiss her, to prove with my mouth what I'm struggling to say with words, but she turns her head slightly, and my lips brush her cheek instead.
The rejection is small but devastating, and I feel it like a punch to the gut.
"I need to think," she says, pulling away from my hands. "I need some space to just... think."
She walks away, disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door softly behind her. I stand there in the middle of my living room, hands still raised like they're waiting for her to come back, and try to understand what just happened.
I told her I want her to stay. I told her she matters. I did everything except get down on my knees and beg, and she still walked away.
My chest is tight, my throat is tight, and I feel the same helpless panic I felt on that mountain when I realized Marcus was gone and there was nothing I could do to bring him back.
The same overwhelming certainty that I've failed, that I've lost something I can never get back, that my choices have led to someone getting hurt.
I sink onto the couch, head in my hands, and stare at the wooden figurine I left on the table. Elizabeth, carved in cedar, permanent and unchanging. I can capture her in wood, but I can't seem to keep her here in reality.
Outside, the sun climbs higher, melting snow from the branches. The world keeps turning, beautiful and indifferent. And inside, I sit in the cabin that suddenly feels empty again despite her presence in the next room.
I'm losing her.
The thought circles in my head, relentless and certain. I'm losing her, and I don't know how to fight something I don't fully understand. I don't know if she's running from me or from herself, from fear or from something I said or didn't say.
All I know is that she fell asleep in my arms and looked at me like I was something worth keeping. And now, she looked at me like I was something she needed to escape.
The carved figurine sits on the table between us—beautiful, perfect, and utterly still. A momento of what we had for one perfect night, before words and fear got in the way.
I pick it up, running my thumb over the smooth curves, and make a decision. I'm not giving up. Not on her, not on this, not on the possibility of something real.
If she needs space to think, I'll give her space. But I won't let her leave believing that last night meant nothing, that she's just another temporary warmth in my isolated world.
She's more than that.
I just need to find a way to make her believe it.