Alpine Embrace

Chapter 11

The chalet was a masterpiece of architecture, but right now, it was just a dark, cold box.

"Okay, peanut," I said, surveying the living room. The furniture blockade looked grim. The boarded-up hallway looked like a crime scene. The gray light filtering through the snow-packed windows was depressing. "If we're going to live in a fort, it needs to be a royal fort. Not a dungeon."

Mia sat on the mattress, her legs crossed, looking skeptical. "Daddy says we can't make a mess."

"Daddy is currently fighting a glacier with a shovel," I said, opening my sketchbook. "He won't notice a little paper."

"He notices everything," Mia whispered conspiratorially. "He has eagle eyes."

"Well, eagles like... nice views. Do we have scissors?"

Mia’s face lit up. "In the junk drawer! Under the batteries!"

We raided the kitchen. We found a pair of kitchen shears, a roll of scotch tape, and, miraculously, a stash of white printer paper in the small office nook near the fridge.

"Perfect," I said, dumping the loot onto the mattress.

For the next two hours, the gloom of the chalet was replaced by the sound of snipping paper and Mia’s giggles.

I tore pages out of my sketchbook, my precious, expensive heavy-weight paper, and handed them to Mia. I taught her how to fold them into triangles, how to notch the edges to create diamonds and stars.

"It's a snowflake!" she shrieked, unfolding her first jagged creation.

"It's a masterpiece," I corrected. "Now, make fifty more."

While Mia turned the printer paper into a blizzard of confetti, I went to work on the lighting.

The camping lanterns Jaxon had set up were harsh. The LED light was blue-white and clinical. It made everything look cold.

I took a sheet of my sketchbook paper. I rolled it into a cylinder. I used the tip of the shears to punch tiny holes in it, constellations. The Big Dipper. Orion.

I taped the paper cylinder over the camping lantern.

Instantly, the harsh glare softened. The light diffused through the thick paper, turning warm and golden. The pinpricks of holes cast tiny stars onto the ceiling of our blanket fort.

"Whoa," Mia breathed, abandoning her scissors. "You made stars."

"We can't see the real ones," I said, setting the lantern in the center of the coffee table. "So we make our own."

We taped snowflakes to the dark leather of the sofa. We draped chains of paper rings over the grim barricade of armchairs. We even made a "Welcome" sign for the entrance of the fort, drawn in charcoal, featuring a very grumpy-looking bear that bore a suspicious resemblance to a certain hockey player.

"Is that Daddy?" Mia asked, pointing to the bear.

"It's... an interpretive abstract representation of authority," I lied.

"It's Daddy," she giggled.

By the time the afternoon light began to fade, turning the gray windows to black, the fort had transformed. It wasn't just a pile of furniture anymore. It was a glowing, paper-filled sanctuary. It felt lived in. It felt... happy.

But as the wind picked up outside, whistling through the cracks in the walls, my anxiety spiked.

Jaxon had been gone for hours.

"Is he okay?" I muttered, pacing the small space of the kitchen.

"He's strong," Mia said, not looking up from her coloring. "He lifts the whole couch with one hand."

Just then, the mudroom door rattled.

A heavy thud shook the floorboards, boots being kicked off. Then the sound of a zipper.

Jaxon walked into the kitchen.

He looked wrecked. His face was gray with exhaustion, his lips pale. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat that had frozen in the cold air. He was carrying an armful of firewood, his knuckles white with strain.

He stopped dead in the archway.

He looked at the living room.

He looked at the paper snowflakes taped to the leather. He looked at the soft, glowing paper lanterns casting star patterns on the ceiling beams. He looked at the "Welcome" sign with the grumpy bear.

The wood in his arms clattered to the floor.

The noise made Mia jump. She looked up, eyes wide.

"Daddy!" she squeaked. "Look! We fixed it!"

Jaxon didn't move. He stood there, his chest heaving, staring at the paper snowflakes.

I held my breath. I had pushed him too far. I had desecrated his tomb. I had violated the "no joy" rule again.

"I know it's a mess," I started quickly, stepping forward. "I can take it down. It's just paper. We were just trying to—"

"Stop," he rasped.

He walked into the room. He moved slowly, like a man walking into a dream he was afraid to wake up from.

He reached out a hand, his fingers still red from the cold, and touched one of the paper lanterns. The paper was warm from the LED bulb inside.

"You made these?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"Kelsea did," Mia said proudly. "She poked holes in the paper. It's the sky, Daddy."

Jaxon looked up at the ceiling where the fake stars were dancing. He stared at them for a long, long time. The tension in his shoulders, which had been there since the moment I met him, seemed to dissolve.

He turned to me.

His eyes weren't angry. They weren't cold. They were wet.

"It's warm," he whispered. "It looks warm."

"It's just a trick of the light," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Diffusion."

"No," he said. He walked toward me. He didn't stop until he was standing right in front of me, smelling of snow and pine and hard labor. "It's not a trick. You changed the room."

He reached out and took my hands. His skin was rough, cold, and calloused. Mine were covered in charcoal dust.

"I didn't think..." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I didn't think it could look like this again. I thought the dark was permanent."

"Nothing is permanent, Jaxon," I said softly. "Not even the dark."

He squeezed my hands. "Thank you."

It was the first time he had said it without sarcasm, without obligation. It was a raw, naked gratitude that made my heart ache.

"You're welcome," I whispered. "Now, sit down. You look like you're about to fall over. I heated up soup on the camping stove."

He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. "Soup. You're bossy."

"I'm efficient. Sit."

He sat on the mattress, right in the middle of the paper wonderland. Mia tackled him immediately, burying her face in his flannel shirt.

"Do you like the bear?" she asked, pointing to the sign. "Kelsea drew it. It's you."

Jaxon squinted at the drawing. "Is that bear scowling?"

"Yes," I called from the kitchen, ladling tomato bisque into mugs. "It's his resting face."

Jaxon looked at the drawing, then at me. A genuine smile, slow, crooked, and devastatingly handsome, spread across his face.

"I do not scowl that much," he protested.

"You're scowling right now," I teased, handing him a mug.

"That's concentration," he murmured, taking the soup. His fingers brushed mine, lingering for a second too long. "I'm concentrating on not passing out from hunger."

We ate dinner in the fort, surrounded by our paper stars. The storm had stopped, but the wind was still howling outside, reminding us that we were still trapped. But inside the circle of light, it felt safe.

After dinner, Mia crashed. The excitement of the "remodel" had worn her out. She fell asleep with her head on Jaxon's lap, her hand clutching a paper snowflake.

Jaxon and I sat in silence, the empty soup mugs on the floor. He was leaning back against the sofa, one hand stroking Mia’s hair.

"She hasn't been this happy in a long time," he said quietly.

"She's a great kid, Jaxon. You're doing a good job."

"I'm trying," he said. He looked at me. The lantern light reflected in his eyes, turning the gray to liquid silver. "I felt it again today. While I was digging."

"Felt what?"

"That fear. That guilt." He looked down at his daughter. "For three years, every time I laughed, or felt okay, I felt like I was betraying Elena. Like if I was happy, it meant I didn't love her enough."

My chest tightened. "That's survivor's guilt, Jaxon. It's a liar."

"I know," he said. "Logically, I know. But emotionally... it's hard to shake. But today..."

He looked up at me.

"Today, I came in here, and I saw the lights. I saw you. And for the first time, the guilt was quieter than the happiness."

He shifted, carefully moving Mia’s head to a pillow so he could turn toward me.

"Kelsea."

"Yeah?"

"Come here."

It was a whisper. A plea.

I scooted closer on the mattress until our knees were touching.

He reached out and cupped my face. His hand was warm now. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"You're a menace," he murmured, his eyes searching my face. "You crash into my life, you wreck my kitchen, you draw my secrets, and you cover my house in paper."

"I'm very high maintenance," I whispered, my heart racing so fast I thought he could hear it.

"You're a light," he corrected. "You're a damn flare in the dark."

He leaned in.

I closed my eyes, tilting my head back.

I felt his breath on my lips. Warm. Scented with tomato soup and coffee.

His lips brushed mine. Just a feather-light touch. A question.

I let out a shaky breath, leaning into him.

He groaned low in his throat and deepened the kiss.

It wasn't tentative anymore. It was hungry. It was desperate. His hand tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me closer. His other arm wrapped around my waist, hauling me against his chest.

I kissed him back with everything I had. I tasted the grief, yes, but I also tasted the hope. I tasted the man who had carried me through the snow, the man who read Narnia voices, the man who was finally, finally waking up.

His stubble grazed my chin. His mouth was hot and demanding. It was the kind of kiss that promised trouble. The kind of kiss that promised everything.

We broke apart, gasping for air. Our foreheads rested against each other.

"Wow," I whispered, dazed.

"Yeah," he rasped, his voice rough. "Wow."

He pulled back slightly, looking at me with an intensity that made my knees weak.

"I can't offer you much, Kelsea," he said, his voice serious. "I'm a mess. This house is a disaster. I have baggage that takes up the whole cargo hold."

"I like baggage," I said, breathless. "I have a lot of my own. Maybe we can stack it."

He huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

"We can try," he whispered.

He pulled me into his arms, tucking my head under his chin. We settled back against the sofa, watching the paper stars dance on the ceiling.

"Jaxon?"

"Mmm?"

"Does this mean I get to sleep in the middle tonight?"

I felt his chest rumble with laughter.

"Don't push your luck, cartoonist. You're still the little spoon."

I smiled into his shirt.

"I can live with that."