“Okay!” she yells, her voice strained. “On three? One… two…THREE!”
We push. It’s an agonizing, slow-motion battle against mass and the unyielding force of the storm. The table scoots inches at a time, each movement a Herculean effort.
My vision grays at the edges, my head swimming from the cut and the exertion. The wind howls, snatching at our clothes, turning the air into a biting, icy whip.
“Again!” I gasp, my lungs burning, my muscles screaming. “Push! Use your legs, sunshine! Use your legs!”
She pushes, her face twisted with effort, her small body trembling. Her hair whips around her face, plastered with fresh snow.
But she doesn’t give up.
Her sheer will, always bright and somehow always unwavering, is a beacon in the storm.
Finally, inch by agonizing inch, we shove the table until it’s flush against the gaping hole, acting as a crude but surprisingly effective barrier.
The immediate blast of wind is cut off, replaced by the muffled roar against the wood. It’s not perfect. Cold air still sifts through the gaps, but it’s a vast improvement.
I slump against the table, gasping for breath, my vision blurring. The sudden silence, even partial, is deafening. My head spins, and a wave of nausea washes over me.
“Edward? Are you okay?” Penny’s voice is laced with concern.
I nod, trying to steady my breathing. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”
She grabs one of the heavy woolen blankets from the bedroom and starts stuffing it into the larger gaps around the table’s edges, trying to insulate it further.
Her teeth are chattering, her skin visibly goose-pimpled, but she works with a focused determination that both surprises and humbles me.
“We need more blankets,” she says, her voice a little shaky. “Or maybe some of those old rags on your bench. Anything to seal it up.”
I push myself upright, shaking off the lingering dizziness. She’s right. I need to help, not sit on my ass feeling sorry for myself.
I point towards the back of the cabin. “There are some tarps in the corner too. And some tools to help seal it better. ”
She follows my gaze, then gives me a quick, assessing look. I can see the fear still lingering in her eyes, but it’s tempered by a newfound steel, a quiet resilience I hadn’t noticed before.
This woman… she’s more than sunshine and sketches.
She’s fire.
And it's fuckinghot.
“Alright,” she says, nodding decisively. “I’ll get them. You… you should sit down. My God, Edward, your head!”
She points to my temple, and I reach up to where the pain is literally pulsing against my skull.
Shit.My fingers come away dripping with blood.
“I’m fine,” I grunt, wiping the blood on my jeans.
She gives me a disbelieving look, then dashes to the workshop area anyway.
I hear the rustle of tarps, the clink of metal tools. She’s surprisingly agile.
I watch her, my mind still reeling from the sudden shift in our reality. One moment, we were lost in each other, in the blissful oblivion of touch and desire.
The next, a violent intrusion, a brutal fucking reminder of the harsh world outside, and the harsh realities of my own existence.
My PTSD, usually a slow, creeping horror, had flared like a wildfire, but for the first time, it hadn’t crippled me.
