Page 151 of These Tears

Please let there be no snow-fucking-mobiles in the damn story.

My eyes flit to the flames dancing in the hearth. Then back to the red cover as I listen to Elias’ footsteps getting further away.

I consider what he might do if he caught me introducing the two.

A hard swallow barely passes through my throat when I decide to leave it where it is.

The sight of the paperback pulls me back to what happened in the early hours of the day – to the unresolved quiet that has never quite lifted since.

After snatching my camera, he disappeared indoors only to return several minutes later in winter gear.

Avoiding eye contact, he shovelled the snow behind the cabin, working harder than the task required.

With our standoff brought to a halt, I’d watched him for another beat, then started at the opposite end of the path near the smokehouse, because the alternative was standing there with all that we’d done to each other still bleeding between us.

When he turned towards the animal shed, I knew better than to follow.

The animals would take food from his hand without asking what he did with it last night. They would breathe steam into the cold, shift in the straw and let him exist beside them without demanding a confession.

So I stayed away and let him have that silence.

We sorted the chickens, busied ourselves with the generators, had our breakfast cereal – from a single bowl. All done in silence.

Even now, neither of us apologises. Neither mentions last night’s dinner, or the camera. His shoulders stay locked beneath his coat. His eyes never come up to mine.

I pull the cloth over my head and realise it’s a balaclava when it closes snugly around my face. The goggles go on last, atop my forehead the same way he wears them. The navy snowsuit follows, then the boots.

Outside, he sits astride the snowmobile, boots braced in the snow, the heavy bulk of the engine beneath him like a waiting beast.

His eyes, framed by the narrow opening in the fabric, hook into me and hold as I approach. When I’m close, he scoots back and taps the seat.

‘Is this going to be another groping session?’ I jab.

The humour drains from his eyes as they settle on his gloves, and he pulls them on slowly, smoothing each finger as if every one requires that much attention.

I regret the words immediately.

‘Sit.’ The command is quick, clipped.

I let the words die and slide to the front of the seat between his knees, my back grazing his chest.

He takes one of my hands, bringing it up to the handlebar. ‘Throttle,’ he says, pressing my gloved thumb gently against the right-hand control. ‘Don’t stab at it. Coax it. Ease your thumb into it. Feel it.’

The cadence slams into my ears and invades my body before I can brace. A finger – in my mouth. That same unbearable slowness. Heat spreads through me, split almost instantly by the cold memory of what else his hands are capable of.

He shifts my hand, his palm closing over the back of mine for half a second too long. The engine answers with a low, contained growl.

And fear kicks in.

‘Brake,’ he adds, guiding my finger to the lever on the left handlebar. ‘Pull to slow. Not all at once unless you fancy being airborne.’

‘This is a bad idea.’ It shakes out of me.

His chin comes to rest beside my shoulder, the angle familiar in all its terror, as if measuring what I can take.

Last night flashes through my eyes. I close them to wait it out until it’s gone. My palms are already damp inside the gloves. I flex my fingers around the grips and discover I’ve been holding my breath. Every muscle goes rigid, bracing for what came next last time.

‘No gears to worry about.’ He nudges two fingers resting over the brake on the other side. My heart stutters, but I don’t dare feel relieved. ‘The transmission does that part for you. You give it power, it decides how much of it you deserve.’ His thumb strokes once over my knuckles as if by accident. His voice has dipped to that low growl he sometimes adopts when he’s close to me.