Not an offer he made to be a gentleman, was never in his nature to be one. Wasn’t about to lay his coat down over a puddle for her to step over. It was the pragmatic thing to do, he thought, because the girl was already teetering on the edge of early-phase hypothermia and there were no socks on under those slippers. Last thing he wanted was to have to strip off her wet clothes and stick her in front of the fire wrapped in blankets, because he was sure she’d kick up one hell of a fuss if he tried. 

Her circumspect squint twisted into a gawk of disapproval once she had processed the offer, standing in front the garage’s open side door with her arms crossed like a crabby little girl. 

“What? That’s — no, I’m fine, thank you.” 

She had to yell it over the volume of the gale, whipping through the towering pines that surrounded his cabin and hammering against the open door, snow blowing in from the thick coating on the ground outside.  

“Snow’s a foot deep,” he growled, and when she shook her head he scoffed irately. “Fuck’s sake. Fine. Move it then, snow’s getting’ in.” 

She only chuffed, marching out into powder once he stepped aside to give her room — impeded immediately, because the ever-thickening layer of fresh snow reached her knees. Watching her try to wade through it might have made him laugh if his tempers weren’t so high. 

It was genuinely a miracle he even managed to get the truck up the long driveway and into the garage, considering how deep the snow was already — and it was still growing deeper, the snowfall was so dense he could practically see it accumulating in inch-thick layers with every passing minute. 

“C’mon,” he barked, planting a firm hand on her shoulder to nudge her forward the porch, guiding so that she didn’t hit the rocks and bushes hidden under the snow. 

Smirked when she failed to conceal her chill from the ice filling up her Uggs, a bright squeak as the biting wind nipped at her cheeks. Not a long walk from the garage to the cabin, only ten-odd metres, but he had no interest in tending to frostbite if she was completely snowblown by the time she toppled through the front door; so he was not gentle. 

“What about my stuff?” She moaned, as he jostled her up the porch steps until she was under shelter, and began punching his code into the lockbox by the door. 

“Jesus, girl,” he grumbled, exasperated, almost snapping the lid off the box in his ferocity to open it, sheer frustration turning his hands into bear claws. “I’ll get your shit in a second. Getting you inside first.” 

She was bouncing on her toes as he unlocked the door, already shivering and whimpering in the cold; her hair was covered in a sprinkling of snow, white flecks caught on her lashes and melting on her cheeks. Once he managed to unlock and open the door, he hooked an arm around the small of her back and unceremoniously hurled her inside. 

Fucking dog started barking immediately, those ear-splitting husky yelps he let out whenever Simon came through the door; only exacerbated by the surprise arrival of a stranger. She squealed in fright, stumbling backwards until she fell against his torso — and that startled her even more, she chirped and bounced off him like a ball off a racket. 

Couldn’t help but chuckle at her, as he reached around her and tousled the dog between the ears.

“Careful,” he sneered. “He’s aggressive.”

A joke. He was a well-trained pup but a miserable failure of a guard dog. He didn’t jump or mouth, just rested his chin expectantly on her belly and wagged his tail like a whip, panting like he had just run to the lake and back. Had clearly chosen a new favourite already.  

“This’s Johnny.” He cleared his throat, because the name made his mouth dry to utter aloud; and only then did he realise he hadn’t spoken it in months. Only ever referred to the dog as boy. Shorter, simpler that way. Didn’t leave burns on its way out. 

“Oh,” she bleated, once she had caught her breath, releasing it with a sheepish chuckle. Gave the blue-eyed husky a timid pat on the forehead. “Hi Johnny.” 

He stepped around her, then, shutting the door behind him and heading towards the woodburner in the corner of the small sitting room. Added a few logs to the embers to get the fire going again, blowing on it until the pile glowed amber and a puff of ashes sprinkled over the stone tiles around the hearth. 

“C’mere,” he ordered, as he shut the firebox door and twisted the wrought iron knob to seal it. 

“Hm?” She hummed, distracted by the dog who lavished her in attention, and her expression was not nearly as dour than it had been not a minute earlier. Boy seemed to have that effect on everyone. 

“Here,” he repeated, no give in his tone.

She meandered over without dispute, dog nailed to her hip and looking up at her expectantly. Kiss ass. 

“Dark in here,” she remarked. 

“Mh. I’ll start up the generator in a minute,” he said, dusting the slivers of wood off his palms and heading back towards the front door. “Warm yourself up.” 

“Where are you going?” Her arms crossed, pup as attentive to his departure as she was. 

Didn’t like that the concern in her question made his throat sting like he had swallowed something sharp. 

“Unloading the truck,” he said. 

First thing he did was start up the generator. 

Needed a top up on diesel, but it started without issue thanks to the antigel, and through the sheets of snow he saw the lights flicker on through the bathroom window once he stepped out of the shed. 

The blizzard was somehow worsening, though, and in the few steps from the toolshed to the garage he felt shards of ice form in the mucosa of his nostrils, skin of his cheeks threatening to blister in the cold — so he decided to unpack the truck proper in the morning. Anything perishable would be better preserved in the frigid air than his freezer, anyway. He took in the fuel cans, though, so the petrol wasn’t frozen by morning, and begrudgingly grabbed the girl’s enormous suitcase from the backseat. Weighed a damn tonne. 

She stood uneasily in the corner of the sitting room as he lumbered back into the cabin, pushing shut the door with significant effort against the incursive gale and sealing it with a switch of the lock. He kicked the snow off his boots as the dog wandered up to him and gave him a welcoming sniff. 

She watched him like he had committed some wrongdoing, rigid and white-knuckled, perched close enough to the fire to feel some of its warmth but not curled up like he’d hoped she’d be. 

“What,” he grunted, shucking off his thick black jacket and hanging it from the hook by the door, the snow that had coated it dusting over the hardwood. There was a churlishness in his tone he didn’t intend to put there. 

She only returned with a mutter, crossing her arms. “Nothing.” 

“What’s the matter,” he repeated, impatient, as he walked in her direction. “Y’want a bite?” 

She didn’t seem appreciative of the offer. “No thank you.” 

“What do you want, then?” 

He didn’t mean to snap like he did. Abrasive was an apt description of him upon reflection, because every word that came out of his mouth was acrid with irritation. He was irritated, though. He just lacked the ability or care to conceal it. 

She only huffed like a child, turning to look into the woodburner instead of at him, as he came to a stop in front of her. She seemed to shrink when that close to him. 

“Use your words, girl. Can’t be arsed with sulking.”

She gritted her teeth as she chewed on a response, still averting his gaze, pinching at the fabric of her hoodie as though some habit borne of discomfort. He was sure he was making her uncomfortable just by being in the same room as her, but that was something she’d just have to suck up or get used to.

“I’m just tired,” she mumbled. 

He sucked his teeth. “Right. Well, couch is there if you want to sleep.”

Not the most appealing thing to sleep on, he’d admit. A two-person loveseat with wooden armrests and thin, overused cushions that had lost their spring after forty-odd years of exiled military asses sitting on them. Place was built in the eighties, he guessed, and half the furnishings were mummified remnants of the era. 

Stiff shit for her, though. He could see her wrestling with it, eyes peeling away from the sapless couch to flit around the room, as if she might find a more comfortable alternative. 

“There a problem?” He asked, amused at her hesitant expression when she met his eye. He’d have loved to tell her that her only other options were his bed or the dog bed. He was sure she’d have chosen the dog’s.  

“No,” she shook her head. 

Her belligerence did little to obfuscate how afraid she was. She was riddled with it, pre-programmed by a swollen amygdala to keep her still and chary as a trapped animal. It left him exasperated more than anything — because there was seemingly nothing he could say, nothing he knew to do to assuage her overwhelming distrust. Unlikely she would sleep a wink that night while in the cabin with him, and the last thing he wanted was for her to be sleep-deprived and crabby when the news of her inevitably extended stay was broken.

He wanted to tell her he wasn’t a bad man. He didn’t think he could say it with a straight face. Couldn’t convince himself, let alone the girl he dragged in out of the cold. 

He let out a harried sigh and rubbed his brow with his thumb. “Scared I’ll do something, are you?” 

Her glare pinned to him, and he could all but see the battle waging behind her forehead — deny politely or risk honesty. Asking her so bluntly was probably not the most couth way to go about it, and he she tightened up at the notion. 

“I just—” She hesitated, squeezing her shoulders with the hands wrapped around herself. “I don’t really know you.” 

He nodded, tilting his head in concession. Not quite a clear answer, but she confirmed it implicitly. 

So he turned and went to the tall cabinet by the door, rummaged through the drawers within for a moment, before returning with his glock. Was never good at storing his firearms properly. It was fortunate she didn’t register what he was holding until he held it out for her to take, grasping it by the barrel, grip in her direction. 

She gawked at it, horrified, and for a heartbeat he dreaded that he had made everything worse by presenting her with the very tool she feared he’d murder her with. 

But she reached for it tentatively, fortunately understanding he intended to give it to her and not point it at her. Whispered what the fuck to herself as though forgetting she had spoken aloud. He found himself amused by how gingerly she took it from him, holding it like it was liable to jump from her grip or explode if she touched it wrong, eyes not parting from it for a second. Tiny hands made the thing look twice as big. 

“Safety’s on,” he mumbled, turning the gun over in her palm to show her the switch, before flipping it. “Now it’s off.” 

“This is… why would you—”

“S’yours,” he said dryly. “If I do something bad you can shoot me with it.” 

“I — you — but I—” Short-circuiting, evidently, eyes darting from the pistol that suddenly looked more comfortable in her hand and back to him, her supposed captor. 

“Won’t need to, though,” he said dismissively, giving the dog a pat on the side before he turned and wandered towards the narrow hallway. Dog was staying with her tonight, apparently, because he remained by her side instead of following him to his bedroom like he usually did. “Blankets are in the basket under the couch.” 

“Where are you going?” She asked again, and he bit down on nothing. 

“Bed.”

He anticipated silence, or some more whingeing, or perhaps even a bullet to the back of the head on his way out. 

Instead, an apprehensive murmur. “Good night.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that. He responded with only a grunt. 

His dreams were ugly. 

Axes and lumbered logs, too wet and rotten to burn. Blood where it shouldn’t be, splashed over the stump, smeared on the throat of the axe grip, in the shape of his handprint. A futile effort to wash the red off his hands, and while the water ran rusty down the sink, the stains remained. 

Only when they were rubbed raw, finally clean, did he find a splinter in his palm — tried to squeeze at it, pick it out with his fingernails, scratch off the flesh it was embedded in — he woke up with his fingernails burrowing into his hand, with sweat clammy on his neck and and his blankets kicked off. 

The heater in his room had been humming all night, and the cabin was well insulated, so he had almost forgotten the extent of the snowstorm until he slipped off his bed and tugged open his plaid curtains. 

White. 

All he could see. For a moment he thought the snow might have been deep enough that it swallowed his entire house — instead it was more whiteout, thick cloud that obfuscated much of the horizon he was used to. The snowfall was lighter, though, and the wind had somewhat settled. The lodgepole pines that were once spindly and deep green were thick with a coating of fondant, branches drooping under the weight of the cover. 

Hard luck for the wee girl on his couch. 

He remembered she was there as he wandered out of his bedroom in his sweatpants, rubbing his eye with his palm and grunting huskily to clear his sleep-coated throat. 

He could smell her. Only in the warmth did the faintest hint of her perfume fill the air, or perhaps her deodorant, even just the scent of her skin — utterly alien in the permanently dust- and tobacco-tainted air of his cabin. 

She was, bafflingly, still asleep when he made it to the kitchen. He spotted her curled up on the scratchy woven rug on the floor, a stolen sofa cushion under her head and two woollen blankets pulled up to her cheeks. The fire had gone out overnight, and she and the dog were as close as possible to the hearth without sleeping on the stone surround. Dog must love her already, squished up behind her with his chin resting in the hollow of her waist. That, or, she was a good source of warmth. 

The couch must have been that uncomfortable. Couldn’t bear it for even a single night, princess and her damn pea. He wondered if he’d be able to find her an alternative for the next few nights she’d be stuck with him, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. 

He heard a faint moan as he lumbered towards the kettle, filling it up with water and setting it on the gas burner. Must have woken her up. He hadn’t made any particular effort to be quiet, though such a thing was near impossible for him. So damn heavy that every step shook the floor. 

She was still fully dressed as she stumbled over to the kitchen archway, same clothes as yesterday, though she had her pompom-adorned beanie on the top of her head. Must have been cold overnight, once the fire went out. 

“Morning,” she said, voice all croaky from a rough sleep, rubbing her eyes with her fists. 

“Couch no good?” He asked derisively, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above the counter. 

“It was a little um — yeah,” she dithered. Yet unwilling to be frank with him. “It’s fine, though, I slept alright.” 

“On the floor?” He questioned, smirking, his back to her. 

“It was fine,” she repeated. 

He shrugged. Unwise suggesting the only alternative just yet. He grabbed the tin of teabags from the cupboard. 

“Tea?” The offer was bitten out short and impatient, a grunt more than a word. 

“I’d like to hit the road pretty soon, if that’s okay with you.”

He let out a hoarse sigh. Too fucking early for a conversation he didn’t want to have at all. He had hoped she’d have come to terms with it on her own, the obvious fact that she was there to stay. Spared him the argument. 

Her eyes flicked up from his chest as he turned to face her, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He might have grinned if he wasn’t filled to the ears with beleaguered dread. 

Birds used to love it when he forsook a shirt in his days of being an active field operative. Back when he was nice and chiselled, all carved abdominals and lean around the middle. Two years of hibernation had thickened him up, though. He had grown a hearty padding of fat that wrapped his meat and kept him warm, muscles bulked up by the manual labour of living off-grid. The slight paunch of a man too familiar with alcohol and a diet of mostly red meat and baked beans. 

Not a pretty sight, in his estimation —  but he wouldn’t begrudge her skittish glances. Liked that she looked a little sheepish when she met his eye. 

He chewed on what to tell her. How to say it. “Have you looked out the window?” 

“Yeah, it’s pretty snowy, so—”

“It is,” he grumbled. 

“—So we should probably head out before it gets worse.”

Just about rolled his eyes. Scratched his stubbled chin instead. “Use your head, love.”  

“What do you mean,” she questioned accusingly, “I am. I want to make sure I can get to a — a town, or something, before I get stranded.”

Seemed she wouldn’t reach the conclusion on her own. “You already are.” 

Her brows scrunched up at that. “No — it’s, but you said—”

“I know what I said,” he disputed. “I said if the road’s open I’d take you.” 

“You don’t know that it’s closed,” she spat, “you haven’t even gone out to check.”

“Mh. Go on, check then.”

“But—”

“Find the road for me.” 

She scowled, scoffed, turned up her nose as she stomped over to her nest on the floor and shoved her feet into her Ugg boots. He found himself chuckling as she unlocked and tore open the front door, only to be met by a wall of snow on the porch that met her knees. 

For a misguided moment he was satisfied. Patent evidence that there was no chance of driving anywhere, smack in front of her, surely that would suffice — but then she stepped into it. 

“Fuck’s sake, girl,” he barked, marching to the door. “I wasn’t serious.” 

She was unfazed. Waddling through the powder like she might walk all the way back to fucking Hazelton. 

He was woefully unprepared to follow her. Only item of clothing he had on were his grey sweatpants — no shirt, no socks, no shoes. Hardly enough time to put his snow boots on before she got too far and vanished into the whiteout, so he left them unlaced as he ordered the dog to stay and hurried out into the snow. 

Lucky that the residual body heat from his fitful sleep meant he could handle the gelid morning without a jacket. Hoped it would last as long as it took to catch her. 

It took him a moment to spot her through the cottony haze of cloud — a moment too long for his liking, because he felt his chest tighten up when he couldn’t find her, until he saw her silhouette meandering towards the garage. 

Fortunate that he was well-practiced in trudging through snow, and she manifestly was not; must have got her foot caught on something, because he watched her topple forward and land arms-first into the powder. Heard her squeal get muffled by the snow as she sank in it. 

Growled indignantly as he shambled towards her, where she scrambled and bleated like a tipped goat, failing to push herself to stand. He hooked her by the belly once he reached her and reeled her out of the chalk-white snow, hoisting her up like a limp animal, cold and wet. 

She didn’t kick, didn’t squeal, didn’t even wriggle in his grip; instead she disputed with only a moan, a pitiful appeal; “put me down.” 

Her defeat was tangible in her laxity, though, flopping her arms over his shoulder as he hauled her back to the cabin. Snow that had stuck to her hoodie melted into his skin and his frustration only distended, gelid water dribbling down his spine and soaking into the waistband of his sweatpants, and he might have called her a stupid girl if the circumstances didn’t make him feel like a reprobate. 

“Any luck?” He grumbled, needlessly facetious, as he carted her up the snow-coated steps and finally had her back inside. Shut the door with his boot before he dropped her to her feet. 

She stood there with her arms crossed, snivelling quietly to herself, refusing to look at him or take a single step in any direction. Perhaps he would have felt guilty, if she hadn’t forced him to venture out into the frigid morning to prevent her from getting herself killed. Again. 

He pinched the thick fleece of her hoodie between his fingers. Soaked with melt. 

“You gonna do that again?” He asked grimly, watching the flakes of snow on the top of her beanie deliquesce into the holes in the yarn. 

She was obdurately silent, wiped away a smelting snowflake with the sodden cuff of her sweater as she glowered at the wall to her left. 

“I don’t wanna be stuck here,” she mumbled, somehow spiteful. “I don’t want to be stuck here with you.” 

He couldn’t suppress a mordant chuckle at that. A puff of droll air out his nostrils. 

“Stiff shit,” he said. “I don’t exactly want you here, either.” 

The grimace she gave him could have turned him to stone, but it only made him grin in placid amusement. A cruel twist of fate, wasn’t it?

“Then why won’t you take me back?” She asked bitterly, and his amusement was snuffed out as quickly as a blown candle. 

“Y’think I’ve kidnapped you?” He questioned, vexation poisoning his tone. “S’that really what you think? 

Seemed she wasn’t willing to say as much, that she wouldn’t stoop low enough to make an outright accusation, but she wore her conviction plain as day in the crease in her brow.  

“You won’t let me leave,” she murmured, her voice suddenly infinitesimally small. 

He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger until they ached and he saw red blooming, because she was, regrettably, probably right. He had no intention of letting her leave. Not one. He’d sooner tie her up by the ankle to the radiator than let her wander out into the snow on her own. 

He’d like to think it was merely fervid protectiveness. An inborn and insurmountable need to safeguard the vulnerable that was only fostered by a decade in the military. The pathological need to obviate any further responsibility for someone else’s death.

That was a charitable excuse, though.

He could feel something uglier in his gut. Something dark and desperate, borne of a malignant and omnipresent familiarity with loss. A void that both forcibly assured its vacuity and yet still hungered for something living and beating to surfeit it. 

Worse, still. 

She was such a pretty thing. 

He loathed that he liked the smell of her, the sight of her, the sound of her voice. Even in spite of how she irked him; a prickly rosebud in the thorn-ridden bramble of his solitude, one that he quite selfishly enjoyed the presence of. 

“No,” he admitted, through teeth. “I won’t.” 

Wet little eyes fixed to his. Scleras all pink from welling tears and a restless sleep. Pupils blown wide and black, looking for something. He could feel it, picks mining away at the stone walls surrounding his motivations, like there might be something obvious within them. He wasn’t even sure what she’d find. 

“Snowstorm will last a couple days,” he said, eventually, amidst a sigh. “Then it’ll clear up. Snow’ll melt. When it does, I’ll take you wherever y’need to go.” 

Then, miraculously, she nodded. Slowly, warily, but he was grateful for even an iota of acquiescence, so that he didn’t have to confront the possibility of forcibly restraining her. 

“How long will that take?” She asked, taking a preparatory breath. 

“Week, maybe.” 

Good timing from the dog, as he meandered over from his bed and sniffed at her thigh, and she seemed to loosen a little. Gave him a scratch behind the ears. 

“Do you — have you got supplies for that long?” 

“‘Nuff to last a month,” he said. “Not my first time being snowed in.” 

She nodded again, and he felt a weight lift from somewhere he couldn’t pin. “Okay,” she breathed. “Fine. As long as you promise you’ll take me to town the moment you can.” 

“Cross my heart,” he grunted. Plain in her expression she understood how brittle a promise was from a stranger, but he was pretty sure he meant it. 

The silence that followed was prickly. Clear she had no clue what to do with herself, as if awaiting permission or instruction, because she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. 

“You should put on something dry,” he said, as he turned to head back into the kitchen. Kettle needed to boil again. “Want a tea or not?” 

She said nothing as she went back to her spot on the floor, and he heard her unzip her suitcase and burrow around in the doubtless mountain of clothes within. 

“Um — yeah, thanks,” she said, and after a moment she appeared in the kitchen archway with her arms wrapped around a bundle. “Where’s your bathroom?” 

“First on the left.” One of two doors. Decided against warning her that it didn’t have a lock. 

She came back a moment later. “Is it — um, is it okay if I use the shower?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Do you have a spare towel?” 

“Cupboard in the hallway.” 

“Can I—”