Page 21 of Mountain Men on Ice

“I know.” A kiss along my jaw; his thumb smooths my stomach like he’s memorizing reassurance. “I’m trying.”

“I see you,” I say. “Trying.”

We start to drift, the heavy kind of sleepy. Rain needles the glass. The generator hums. His breath evens at my neck and for a foolish second I think the worst has passed.

The crash is a gunshot through dreams.

We jerk upright. The house shudders. Wood creaks. Glass shatters. Wind screams where it shouldn’t.

“The front window,” Grady says, already swinging his legs out.

He staggers and catches the nightstand to keep from falling.

“It’s okay.” I scramble into my underwear and yank on one of his hoodies. “I’ve got this.”

The hall floor is ice-cold air.

The great room looks like a crime scene. A pine limb has speared the picture window; snow and needles tear in on a furious gust. Curtains thrash like birds.

“Shit,” I breathe. “You stay there.”

“I can⁠—”

“Grady.” Both hands on his chest, steady. “You’ll re-injure your knee.”

Old habit wins for a second. He steps and the joint locks. The pain flashes across his face.

“Grady.”

“Okay,” he grits. “Tell me what to do.”

“Grab the trashbags from under the sink. I’ll get the ladder and duct tape.”

He nods, pale but present, pivots using the wall like a crutch. I sprint for my supplies. We reunite moments later.

He’s back in a minute, arms full of towels. “The generator?”

“It’s on. We’ll be fine until tomorrow.”

I toss a towel over the jutting tree limb to keep it from shifting and start taping plastic across the inside of the broken pane. It bucks in the wind like a living thing. My hair whips my cheeks; glass bites my bare foot. I swear once, sharp and bright.

“Stevie—” He lunges on instinct; the knee punishes him. He snags the couch arm, breath strangled.

“I’m okay.” I pull another strip. “The kitchen towel. Tie it.”

He hands it over. I knot it around my arch and keep moving. Tape. Plastic. Tape. The wind finds every gap; I slam them shut until the sheet holds. It’s ugly, but it holds.

We dry the floor, sweeping glass into piles. The area is finally secure.

“Okay,” I pant, hands raw. “First pass done. We’ll do more in the morning when⁠—”

“I should’ve been the one to do it,” he says flatly, staring at the taped window like it insulted him. “I should’ve⁠—”

“No.” Too sharp. I catch his face in my hands. Cold skin; colder eyes. “You should not have re-torn your ACL just to clean up a mess.”

His jaw just sets.

“Hey,” I say softer. “We handled it. You were smart. You listened. You didn’t make it worse.”