on'

all. I close it behind me as quickly as I can, shoving most of the snow back out. As soon as I do, another gust of w

good

n around, finding her standing a few feet away in one of my swe

oughts are no longer a murky sea but a stream, s

ack," she says out loud, her thoughts practically si

arms. "It has, but you s

e freezing cold." She puts down the spoon and grabs the l

do no

s and the light from the lant

lid off the pot. Immediately, the fragrance of the ra

e comes back to the room, draping the quilt ov

a little wary of her change

t about cooking. Now, you go into the living room an

t her. "Are you or

er hands on her hi

a low growl. The hungr

rug in front of the fire. But not too clos

e yo

owl of stew then sits

o a sea of gold. Her bluish gray eyes remind me of a winter morning, the kind where you do not know if the sun will finally shine or if more snow wil

er hand through her hair. "I was

ad injury at all, the skin as un

a difference. But questions of that sort are a danger. I start asking things, then she will start asking about me. The tradeoff

closely attuned. She tilts her head, listening to the wind. "I am not really an indoor person. I have never been. I ne

s," I say without thinking. Why I a

r stew around. "Your guestroom is not cozy at all, though," she says, answering

izing that whether I voice what is on my mind or n

d. Now that I think about it, it is surprising you e

anyone else to back off. "I am not antisocial. I just h

is not important. "No need

do

ttle room another minute. I just had to get out of there. Then like I said, I got h

nto her mouth and slurping the rich soup. Some of it trickles down her chin and she hastily

my own bowl of stew. She is no

stew remaining, my stomach fuller than before.

ets her own empty b

are right. You can cook. And it is go

evenings meant sitting around the fire with several members of my pack. I l

es grow wide. "You su