Page 104 of When the Storm Breaks
My hands are steady.
My heart is not.
“You put both pairs of socks on?” I ask, glancing up.
She nods. “Yes,” she murmurs, cheeks turning faintly pink.
“Good. The boots’ll still be a little big, but they should fit better.”
And as I tie the laces, I wonder if she notices.
If she feels it.
That I’d do this, too—a hundred times over.
That I’d spend my whole life on the floor, freezing, kneeling at her feet, if it meant she were warm.
When she’s ready, I move fast to throw on my own snowpants and jacket. I don’t want to waste a second.
I grab a pair of gloves from the bin, pulling them over her hands one at a time, my thumbs grazing her wrists as I guide them in.
Then, I reach for the loudest, ugliest, brightest neon-orange hat I can find—and pull it down over her head until it covers her eyes. She lets out a soft noise of protest, but I’m already leaning in, tilting her chin up, gripping both sides of her face.
And I kiss her.
Hard. Like it means something. Like maybe it’s the only thing keeping me sane.
When I finally tug the hat back up, revealing her eyes, she’s smiling.
“Come on, Haiyden,” she says, half-laughing. “I’m getting hot.”
“You’re always hot,” I say with a wink.
I step back and take her in, full view—and I can’t help the laugh that breaks out of me.
“Actually, you know how little kids look when their parents stuff them into snowsuits? Big mittens, can barely move?”
She narrows her eyes.
“Cute,” I add, grinning. “Like a little penguin.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but I catch the twitch of a smile she’s trying to suppress.
I open the door, the cold hallway air rushing in fast, and usher her out. Then lock up behind us, slip on my own mittens, and follow her into the snow.
Outside, there’s a small stretch of lawn beside the apartment building—patchy and a little uneven, with footprints packed into the snow where people have already walked. But it’s just big enough for what I have in mind.
Just big enough for two grown-ass adults to make snowmen and pretend it matters.
The second we step out, Calla drops to her knees and starts packing snow into shape, her gloved hands moving with quick precision. I match her pace, rolling my own snowball along the ground as I toss a challenge over my shoulder.
“Bet I can make a better snowman than you.”
She doesn’t answer, at least not out loud.
A few minutes pass. We keep working, the balls of snow growing bigger, heavier, harder to push.
I glance over to check her progress—and that’s when I really see her.
