“Yes.”
“Fear still controlled you.”
Caleb looked toward the fire.
Eleanor let the truth remain between them.
Finally he said:
“He died nine years ago.”
“You said ten.”
“Almost ten.”
“And you stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Caleb’s expression turned blank.
For several seconds, Eleanor thought he would not answer.
Then:
“Because after he died, there was nobody left to tell me where else I could go.”
The sentence broke something in her.
Eleanor rose.
Caleb looked up.
She crossed the small distance.
He immediately stiffened.
She opened her arms.
Then waited.
Caleb stared at her.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“What are you doing?”
“Offering.”
The giant man looked at Eleanor’s arms as though he had never seen such a gesture before.
Perhaps he had not.
Slowly, Caleb stood.
He was so tall she had to tilt her head back.
He took one hesitant step.
Then stopped.
Eleanor waited.
Another.
Finally he bent toward her.
His arms came around her carefully.
Too carefully.
Eleanor hugged him harder.
Caleb inhaled sharply.
For a moment he remained rigid.
Then his entire body changed.
The tension left his shoulders.
His arms closed fully around her.
The massive man buried his face against her hair.
Eleanor felt the first shudder.
Then another.
Caleb was crying.
Silently.
His chest moved against hers.
Both rhythms.
His ordinary heartbeat racing.
The strange secondary pulse slower beneath the scar.
Eleanor held him.
She had spent years believing her body took up too much room.
For the first time, she thought perhaps there were moments when being large meant there was simply more of her available to hold someone who had never been held enough.
The thought made her cry too.
They stood in front of the fire while the blizzard buried the mountain.
Neither knew how long.
Eventually Caleb pulled back.
His beard was wet.
He looked embarrassed.
Eleanor wiped her own face.
“Do not apologize.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t.”
He nodded.
The roof groaned.
Both looked up.
A crack sounded above the bedroom.
Caleb’s expression changed immediately.
He grabbed the lantern.
“Stay here.”
Eleanor followed.
“I specifically said—”
“No.”
He turned.
“No?”
“You told me that room was mine.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m inspecting my ceiling.”
Despite everything, Caleb almost smiled.
They entered the bedroom.
Snow dust drifted from the rafters.
One roof brace bowed beneath weight.
Caleb swore quietly.
“What?”
“Too much snow.”
“Can it collapse?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Could be ten hours.”
“Could be ten minutes.”
Eleanor looked upward.
Caleb grabbed his coat.
“What are you doing?”
“Clearing the roof.”
“In that storm?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“I built this cabin.”