Dalton keeps looking around. Assessing and comparing data to the map in his head. He’s got his hood pulled up, dark toque almost hiding his light hair. He normally wears it almost as short as Anders, but he’s been letting it grow out for winter, when every bit of insulation helps. He’s also letting his beard grow out from its usual can’t-be-bothered-to-shave-every-day stubble. Yet he keeps it trimmed, assessing my reaction. That’s the side of him most don’t see, the side that isn’t quite so fuck-you, is even a little bit self-conscious, making sure his lover likes what she sees.
There’s plenty to like. Dalton isn’t gorgeous. I’d say he’s pleasant-looking if that didn’t seem like damning with faint praise. But there’s something to be said for pleasant, for a face that’s easy to look at. Crow’s-feet hint at the corners of his eyes despite the fact he’s two months younger than me. Those wrinkles come from spending as much time as possible outside and not wearing sunscreen or sunglasses as often as he should. I bought a coconut-based sunscreen, and when he wore it, I may have commented on—and demonstrated—how good he smelled. I may also have let my gaze linger a little longer when he was wearing the Ray-Bans I bought. Yep, I’m playing him shamefully, but if it saves him from skin cancer, it’s worth it.
Dalton finds the direction he wants and, still without a word, unloads his saddlebags. He’d grabbed mine from the clearing before hauling me off, and now he stuffs his supplies in. I don’t offer to carry it, partly because I know he’ll refuse but also because offering seems like begging for his attention, his forgiveness.
We hike back to the clearing, and he starts gathering snow. While I have no idea what he’s doing, I say, “Tell me what I can do, Eric.” He doesn’t answer at first. Being pissy, though, isn’t going to get this accomplished. Dark is falling fast, and we need shelter.
He motions for me to help him pile snow layering the soft and the hard until we’ve constructed a massive mound. Then we wait. Dalton doesn’t say we’re waiting. He rummages through his bag and finds water and bars and makes me eat and drink while he keeps checking the snow pile. Finally he starts hollowing it out.
It’s dark by the time he’s finished. I won’t say he constructed an igloo. It’s more rudimentary than that, and honestly, when I see what he expects us to do, I hesitate.
I remember when my parents caught me digging out a snow fort with a friend, and I was grounded for a week and forced to read the medical file on two kids who’d suffocated in a collapsed snow fort. That was life with my parents—when I tried something dangerous, I didn’t get a lecture, I got coroner’s reports. Which put me in good stead for being a homicide cop, however much they’d hate to think they helped me into a career so obviously beneath me.
My parents were … difficult. That’s really all I can say. They died in a small plane crash a few years ago, so there’s no point in being angry or bitter. If a part of me finds a small irony in the fact that they’d died doing the kind of thing they’d warned me off … Well, I don’t dwell on it. I loved my parents in my way, and I think they loved me in theirs, but I’ll never know for sure, and there’s nothing I can do about that.
As for what Dalton wants me to do now, the question comes down to this: do I trust him? The answer is: unequivocally. When it comes to safety, he can be as paranoid as my parents, but he deals with that through education—not the kind that comes with coroner’s photos but the kind that says, If you’re going to build a snow fort, here are the ways to make it safe. When he sees me looking skeptically at his shelter, he finally does speak, grunting, “Roof’s only a foot thick. It collapses? You can dig out.”
We go inside, and he turns on the flashlight and motions for me to give him my hands. When he pulls off my gloves, I say, “They’re fine, Eric. I can feel them,” but he examines my fingers and then my toes, warming them with his body heat, careful not to rub. Then he checks my eyes, which feels like he’s checking a horse, pulling up my lids and peering in without a word.
He hands me the water, and I drink some more. As our bodies heat up the insulated shelter, he pulls off his snowsuit. I do the same, and he sits there, cross-legged, ignoring the water pouch as I hold it out. Instead, he runs his hands over his face and through his hair and exhales as if he’s been holding his breath all this time.
I crawl over to him, and when he looks up again, my face is right there. I say, “I’m sorry,” and his hands are in my hair, lips on mine.
I lift my mouth to his, my lips soft, but it’s not that kind of kiss. It’s the kind that says he’s been going out of his mind since he flew back into Rockton and found me lost in the woods, midstorm, with the psycho who captured Nicole.
Now I’m here, and I’m safe. He’s built this shelter, and I’m finally safe.
So, no, it’s not a quiet kiss, or a soft kiss. It’s the kind that has me flat on my back in two seconds, and undressed in not much more. It’s hunger and need, edged with residual terror and panic. And I feed right back into it, my own terror and panic of the last twenty-four hours finding release in rough kisses and rougher hands and finally, proper release, deep and shuddering as I collapse onto the snow-packed ground.
Dalton hovers over me, breathing hard, his eyes closed. I reach up and put my hands against his cheeks. When he opens his eyes, I say, “Hello.”
He chuckles. “Missed that part, didn’t I?”