“Do it. Unless you want to freeze.”
I don’t argue.
I grope through the sudden obstacle course of the dark hallway, guided by the ambient gray light filtering through the snow-packed windows. The air in the corridor cools rapidly, the heat leeched away by the walls of glass offering zero insulation against the blizzard raging outside.
I reach the master suite. It feels like a crypt.
I strip the duvet and the heavy wool throw, my fingers fumbling in the gloom. I gather them into a bundle reeking of lavender detergent, a fragrance that lies in this place. Domestic camouflage for a cage.
When I return to the living room, a fire crackles in the massive stone hearth.
Boyd crouches before it, feeding kindling to the flames. The sudden tangerine light throws his profile into sharp relief: the strong nose, the hard line of his jaw, the concentration scored into his brow. Fire and stone. A primeval god tending the first flame in a dying world.
“Sit. Close to the hearth. We need to conserve body heat.”
I drop the blankets and sit on the thick rug.
The heat from the fire hits me immediately, a physical caress on my chilled skin. It contrasts completely with the creeping cold at my back, where the glass walls frost over with intricate patterns of ice. The wind howls outside, a mournful, hungry sound that makes the fire feel like the only safe place on earth.
Boyd stands, dusting wood chips from his hands. He moves to the pantry, the firelight casting his shadow long and distorted against the wall. He returns with two cans of soup and a manual opener.
“Dinner.” He tosses me a can.
I catch it. Tomato bisque. Cold.
“Five-star dining.” I crack the lid. The sound rings loud in the quiet room.
“Calories act as fuel. Taste is a luxury.” He sits down next to me.
Not touching, but close enough that his proximity radiates heat like a furnace. He leans back against the leather sofa, stretching his long legs out toward the fire.
He pulls his Glock from his waistband and sets it on the rug between us.
Then he produces a cleaning kit from his pocket. A small, black pouch unfurls to reveal brushes, oil, and rags.
He processes the weapon right in front of me.
I sip cold soup from the jagged metal rim of the can. It tastes metallic and salty, thick and unappetizing, but I force it down. Boyd is right.
Fuel.
The body needs glucose to maintain thermoregulation.
His hands are large, scarred, and terrifyingly capable. They handle the small springs and pins with a surgeon’s delicacy. He moves with a rhythm born of thousands of repetitions.
Strip. Clean. Oil. Reassemble.
Clack. Snap. Slide.
The sounds turn rhythmic, almost hypnotic. The smell of gun oil, acrid and metallic, mixes with the scent of burning pine. Masculine, dangerous, and somehow safer than the lavender sheets.
“Why a doctor?” He doesn’t look up. He runs an oil-soaked patch through the barrel, his eyes focused on the steel.
The question catches me off guard. We haven’t spoken about anything personal. We’ve only discussed rules, perimeters, and survival protocols.
“Why not?” I take another sip of soup to wet my throat.
“You have the hands for it. Steady. Precise. But you don’t have the stomach for it.”
