Page 102 of When the Storm Breaks
Carrots from the fridge. Coal from the bag on the porch.
My dad, searching the woods for the right sticks, like it fucking mattered.
It mattered.
No one should have to do that alone.
It sparks an idea. Something dumb, probably. But it grabs hold fast.
I lean down, close enough that my lips brush the shell of her ear. “I guess that means I’m in the presence of a snowman expert, though.”
She lets out a little snort—more air than laugh—but her body relaxes against mine.
“I guess so,” she says, voice still laced with something wistful.
It’s not lost on me that she didn’t say it with a smile.
“Stay here,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll be right back.”
I head into my room, the idea already unfolding, my mind buzzing like it used to when I was a kid trying to pull something off before anyone could stop me.
I start grabbing the basics—two thick pairs of socks, the tightest pair of briefs I own so they won’t ride up under layers, a long-sleeve shirt, sweatpants, and a soft navy sweatshirt she’ll probably swim in.
I fold everything, laying it neatly across the top of the dresser like it matters how it looks.
I move to the closet and start digging.
My old ski jacket’s buried deep, tangled with gear I haven’t touched in years. But I find it. Snowpants too. They still smell faintly like campfire and pine and dust.
I fold those and place them on the bed, my chest already tightening at the thought of her wearing them. Of her bundled up in too-big gear that swallows her whole, safe in the middle of a storm.
“Calla!” I call—maybe a little too loud.
She comes running in, eyes wide, the faintest crease between her brows.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you,” I say quickly, raising both hands.
I hadn’t meant to startle her. But something about how fast she came—how scared she looked—does something twisted and warm to my chest.
I don’t deserve that kind of response. That kind of care.
She’s breathing a little hard, standing in the doorway in my socks and t-shirt, and I look her over without meaning to.
“Strip, please, pretty girl.”
Her expression wavers—equal parts cautiousand wrecked. Like her body still remembers everything we did this morning and isn’t sure it can survive a round two.
I laugh under my breath.
“Not like that.”
She doesn’t move, but she doesn’t pull away either.
So I step toward her, careful, and gently lift the t-shirt she’d pulled on after the shower.
She raises her arms without needing to be asked again.
“Get dressed,” I tell her, nodding toward the pile I’d laid out on the dresser. “It’s not exactly high fashion, but it’ll keep you warm.”
