The storm didn't ease.
By nightfall, the rain turned to sleet, tapping like cold fingers against the cabin walls. The wind howled, and the fire flickered low, fed by the last of her dry wood.
Aira tucked the last blanket around Kael. He lay near the hearth, shirtless, the wound at his shoulder finally clean and stitched again. A deep bruise colored his ribs, and still, he hadn't complained once.
"You'll freeze down there," she said quietly, brushing her damp hair from her face.
He looked up at her. "So will you."
Silence stretched between them. Then he said it.
"There's room."
Aira hesitated.
It was a single bed. Narrow. But warm.
And something in his voice—soft, careful—told her it wasn't just an invitation.
It was trust.
She bit her lip, then nodded. "Turn around."
Kael grinned faintly but obeyed.
She slipped under the covers beside him, her back to his. The bed creaked. The fire hissed.
He was warm. Gods, so warm.
Minutes passed.
Then she felt it—his hand reaching back, blindly, fingers brushing hers under the covers.
No pressure. No pulling.
Just there.
A silent question.
She laced her fingers into his.
Answering.