five
Phoebe
I wake up surrounded by warmth, cocooned in a bubble of heat that seems impossible given the icy cabin. For a moment, I keep my eyes closed, savoring the sensation of Aiden's body pressed against mine, his arm heavy across my waist, his soft chest hair on my back, his breath warm against my neck.
Last night rushes back in vivid detail. The way he touched me. The things he said. The way he looked at me like I was something precious and wild all at once.
He's still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it never is when he's awake. Without the constant furrow between his brows, he looks younger. Still rugged, still undeniably masculine, but softer somehow.
I should probably feel awkward. We went from strangers to lovers in less than twenty-four hours. Some feminist part of my brain is wagging a finger at me for falling into bed with the first mountain man who crossed my path. But honestly? I regret nothing.
Carefully, I extract myself from his embrace and peer over the edge of the loft. The fire has died completely, and the cold air hits me like a slap. I grab my clothes from where they landed during our frantic undressing and pull them on quickly.
Downstairs, I head for the window, curious about what the morning has brought. I wipe away the layer of frost from the inside of the glass and gasp.
"Holy shit."
The world outside has disappeared. Snow covers the window almost completely, just the top few inches revealing the still-falling flakes. I move to the front door and crack it open—or try to. It doesn't budge.
"Problem?" Aiden's sleep-roughened voice comes from behind me. He's descended from the loft, pulling a sweater over his head, hair mussed in a way that makes my stomach flip.
"We're snowed in," I say. "Like, literally snowed in. The door won't open."
He joins me, muscling the door with his shoulder. It gives an inch, revealing a solid wall of white.
"Snow drift," he explains, letting the door close. "Wind pushed it against the cabin. Back door might be clearer."
It isn't. We're completely entombed in snow.
"So what now?" I ask, unable to keep the nervous edge from my voice. "Are we trapped?"
"Not trapped," he corrects, finger-combing his beard straight. Well, straight-ish. "Just need to dig out. There's a shovel in the shed."
"Which is buried under four feet of snow."
He considers this. "We'll improvise."
And improvise we do. For the next hour, Aiden uses a cookie sheet from the kitchen as a makeshift shovel, carving a narrow path from the back door. I follow behind with a pasta pot, widening the channel. It's exhausting, frigid work, but there's something oddly satisfying about it too.
"Do you live like this all winter?" I ask, dumping another pot-full of snow. This can’t be good for my back.
He glances back at me. "Not usually this bad. April storms are rare."
"But does it snow this much regularly?"
"Sometimes more." He pauses, assessing our progress. "You get used to it."
I try to imagine getting used to this—to being so completely at the mercy of nature. In Vancouver, weather is an inconvenience, something to check on your phone before deciding which jacket to wear. Here, it's life or death.
We finally reach the shed, which takes another thirty minutes to unbury enough to wrench the door open. Inside, Aiden retrieves a proper snow shovel and some other tools.
"We need to clear the roof, too," he says, eyes tracking the snow load above us. "Too heavy. Could collapse."
The thought of Uncle Max's cabin caving in on us is enough to spur me to action. Together, we work through the morning, Aiden showing me how to use a roof rake to pull snow down in manageable sections.
By noon, we've cleared essential pathways and reduced the roof load. We're both sweating despite the cold, our breath coming in visible puffs.
"Break time," Aiden announces, leaning the shovel against the porch. "Need to hydrate."
Inside, I boil snow on the stove while Aiden builds a new fire. The cabin gradually warms, and with it, my outlook improves. We're not going to freeze or be crushed by snow. That's something.
"So," I say, handing him a mug of hot chocolate made from powder I'd packed, "you seem to know what you're doing. Have you always lived in Darkmore?"
He nods, cupping the mug in his large hands. "Born here. Left for college, came back."
"What did you study?"
"Business. Forestry minor." He takes a sip. "Always knew I'd take over the store eventually."
"But not so soon?" I guess, thinking of the glimpses of pain I've seen when he mentioned his father.
Something flickers across his face—surprise that I've read him correctly, perhaps.
"Dad's heart gave out eight years ago. Wasn't supposed to be my turn yet."
I want to reach for his hand but sense he wouldn't welcome the gesture. "I'm sorry."
He shrugs. "It's life. Mountains teach you that. Nothing's guaranteed."
"Is that why you love it here? The mountains, I mean."
His expression shifts, softens. "Partly. They're honest. Dangerous but straightforward. No pretending."
"Unlike cities," I supply.
"Unlike people," he corrects.
We lapse into comfortable silence, sipping our drinks. I study him over the rim of my mug, trying to reconcile the gruff man from yesterday with the passionate lover of last night, with this thoughtful person before me now.
"The leak," I say suddenly, remembering. "We should fix that before the snow melts and makes it worse."
He nods, finishing his drink. "Was thinking the same."
We move upstairs, and Aiden examines the ceiling with practiced eyes. "Need to patch from the outside, but we can stop the inside leak for now."
From his pack, he produces the roofing sealant we bought yesterday. With methodical precision, he applies it to the worst areas, explaining each step.
"You've done this before," I observe.
"Few times." He smooths the sealant with a practiced motion. "Cabins up here always need maintenance."
"Like yours?"
A nod. "Built it myself. Five years ago."
This stops me. "You built a whole cabin? By yourself?"
That almost-smile appears. "Had help with the foundation. Rest was me."
"That's... incredibly impressive."
He shrugs off the compliment, but I catch the slight flush on his neck. He continues working, and I find myself mesmerized by his hands—strong, calloused, yet capable of such gentleness, as I discovered last night.
By mid-afternoon, we've repaired the immediate leaks, reinforced the plastic over the broken windows, and the cabin is actually starting to feel cozy rather than desperate.
Aiden stands on the porch, surveying our work with satisfaction. The storm has finally stopped, leaving behind a blindingly white landscape and absolute silence.
I join him, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. "It's beautiful," I admit. "In a terrifying way."
"That's the mountains," he says simply.
Steam rises from his body, the exertion of our work meeting the frigid air. The sight stirs something in me—a primal attraction to his strength, his capability. Without overthinking it, I drop to my knees in front of him.
His eyes widen. "Phoebe, what—"
"I want to thank you," I say, looking up at him through my lashes. "For everything."
His breath catches as I reach for his belt. "You don't need to—"
"I know." I maintain eye contact as I unbuckle his belt. "I want to."
His pupils dilate, desire darkening his eyes. "Anyone could see us."
I glance around at the pristine snow stretching unbroken in every direction. "Who? The squirrels?"
That earns me a genuine laugh, which turns into a sharp intake of breath as I free him from his jeans. He's already hardening, growing impressively under my gaze.
I blow warm air against him, watching him twitch in response. The contrast of the frigid air around us and the heat of him in my hand is intoxicating.
"Phoebe," he groans as I take him into my mouth.
I work him slowly at first, savoring the weight of him on my tongue, the taste of him. His hands come to rest in my hair, not pushing, just holding on as if he needs an anchor.
"Look at you," he rumbles, voice thick with desire. "So fucking beautiful."
The praise sends heat pooling between my legs. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, drawing a string of curses from his lips that steam in the cold air.
"That's it," he encourages, fingers tightening in my hair. "Take all of me."
I comply eagerly, relaxing my throat to accommodate him. His hips buck slightly, unable to remain still. I look up, meeting his gaze as I work him, and the raw hunger I see there nearly undoes me.
"Your mouth," he groans. "So hot. So perfect."
The condensation rises more heavily around him now, his body temperature soaring with arousal. I pull back to swirl my tongue around the sensitive head, one hand stroking the shaft while the other cups him from below.
"Fuck," he hisses. "You're too good at this."
I smile around him before taking him deep again, establishing a rhythm that has his thighs tensing beneath my hands. I can feel him getting close, his cock hardening further, his breathing ragged.
"I'm going to come," he warns, trying to pull back. "Phoebe—"
I tighten my grip on his hips, silently urging him to let go. His restraint breaks with a guttural moan that echoes across the snow-covered clearing. Salty and hot. I take everything he gives, swallowing around him until he's spent.
When I finally release him, he hauls me to my feet and kisses me deeply, seemingly unconcerned about tasting himself on my tongue. His hands frame my face with surprising tenderness.
I'm in trouble. Because this isn't just physical attraction anymore. This isn't just convenient proximity or storm-induced passion. Standing here on this snow-covered porch, looking at this man who's shown me nothing but strength and unexpected kindness, I'm developing real feelings.
The kind that will make leaving when the roads clear a lot more complicated than I anticipated.