My back was stiff. My neck and shoulders were sore. My thighs and calves still burned. But I’d do it all again. Charge head-on into the storm without an ounce of hesitation if that meant Bambi was here. Safe. With me. 

I looked down at her as she slept, her head in my lap and her hands tucked beneath her chin. Her lips were slightly parted and every so often a soft snore left her, making the corners of my mouth quirk upward.

It reminded me of when we were younger. Her dad and Caroline used to fight. Loudly and often. Bambi would slip into my room and hide under the covers, hands over her ears, until either the fighting stopped or she fell asleep. It was usually the latter. I could always tell when she’d fallen asleep because she would let out the same little snores. 

At first it used to annoy me. But it was what she had told me during one of our parents’ particularly bad fights that changed everything. She had said, “You make all the bad feelings go away. You’re the only place that’s safe.”

That was the moment I became protective of Bambi. I’d left my bedroom door cracked open for her ever since. I never wanted her to feel like she couldn’t come to me, couldn’t feel safe in her own home. 

My chest tightened at the memory. I hadn’t thought about that in years.

I brushed away some of the hair that had fallen into her face and tucked it behind her ear. The last of the afternoon light faded from her face, soft shadows taking its place. 

My phone buzzed on the rug beside me, another severe weather notification flashing on the screen. I didn’t need to open it to know that the storm was worsening. I could see it. 

Through the living room window, snow swirled so heavily I could barely make out the line of pines at the back of the property. Snow blanketed the entire porch and piled against the window sills. The wind whipped against the cottage, occasionally rattling the French doors. In the distance, above even the howl of the winds, I could hear the distinct crack of branches breaking beneath the weight of the snow.

The lights in the cottage flickered before cutting off completely. I waited for the familiar hum of the generator to kick on but was met only by dead silence.

“Damn it.” 

I glanced down at Bambi sleeping peacefully in my lap. I didn’t want to leave her, but without the generator our only heat source would be the fireplace. The food in the fridge wouldn’t last long either. 

The old apartment flashed in my mind. That night I’d come for Bambi, it had been freezing and without power. One look at her had been enough to know she hadn’t eaten in days. 

I gritted my teeth, a surge of anger rushing through me. There was no way in hell I was going to let Bambi live through that again.

Careful not to wake her, I slipped my hand beneath her head and lifted it from my lap. I slid myself out from under her and eased a pillow beneath her head. I pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders and tucked it in around her. 

After pulling on a dry coat and boots, I headed to the kitchen for the flashlight I kept in one of the cabinets. I clicked it on to make sure it still worked, then switched it off again.

I stepped outside and headed for the small shed attached to the side of the cottage where I stored the generator. 

I shone the light on the generator, and immediately grimaced. The red paint was chipped and peeling in places, and the frame it sat in was rusted.

I had been meaning to replace it, but when it was only me living here, it never seemed urgent. Now I had Bambi to think about. 

I made a mental note to replace it as soon as the storm passed, then pushed the thought aside and focused on the generator. 

I was relieved to find it was only low on fuel and hadn’t suffered any major damage. 

I pulled the gas can from the shelf on the back wall of the shed, silently thanking myself for my utter stupidity at storing gasoline inside the same building as a potential fucking ignition source. 

I topped off the generator and turned it on, the steady rumble filling the silence. 

After a final check of the generator to make sure everything was running smoothly, I closed and latched the shed and returned to the cottage. 

When I entered through the French doors, Bambi was sitting up in front of the fireplace, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Graham?” she asked, looking up at me. “Where did you go?”

“The power went out. I had to check the generator.”

“Oh.” She looked around the cottage, only then noticing that just half of it was lit.

I crouched beside her and readjusted her hoodie that had bunched around her while she slept. “Why don’t you go back to sleep, Bambi,” I said. “Everything is fine.”

“Uh-uh,” she muttered drowsily. “Don’t want to.”

“Bambi,” I pressed. “You…” 

You could have died. 

It felt like my heart was lodged in my throat. I swallowed hard and said, “You just went through a lot, and your body needs rest.”

Her lips turned downward, then just as she went to speak, her stomach rumbled loudly and her mouth clamped shut. 

In the dim glow of the firelight, I could see the faint pink of a blush spreading across her cheeks. 

“Food first. Then sleep. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded. 

I raised a single brow at her.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “That sounds good.”

“Alright,” I said, standing and holding out my hands to her. “But you’re helping.”

Bambi tossed the blanket aside and took my hands, pulling herself to her feet.  She stumbled just a little, bumping into my chest.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Come on.”

Bambi leaned against the counter as I pulled two pots from the cupboard. “What are we making?”

“Spaghetti.”

I set the pots on the stove, then grabbed a cutting board and knife and laid them in front of Bambi. “You’re chopping,” I told her. “Tomatoes are in the fridge and the garlic is in the cabinet to your left.”

Bambi nodded and headed for the fridge. While she got to work chopping, I filled the first pot with water for the pasta and set it on the stove, then started working on the sauce.

I glanced over at her, a smile pulling at the edges of my lips. Two little creases had formed between her brows, and her nose was scrunched. She’d always done that whenever she was concentrating. 

When she was finished with the tomatoes and garlic, I tossed them into the pot and stirred the sauce. 

“Would you hand me the salt and pepper?” I asked.

Bambi rose onto her toes, reaching for the grinders on the top shelf. 

The grinders were just out of her reach, so I stepped up behind her to help. “I got it.” 

Bambi’s soft, sudden inhale made me pause. I looked down. My left hand rested against her waist and my chest was pressed lightly to her back. 

Her eyes met mine and her lips were parted.

The aroma of simmering tomatoes and garlic faded beneath the scent of her. It was my soap. My shampoo. Yet somehow, in only the way Bambi could, she made them uniquely her own. 

I cleared my throat and stepped away. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw her shiver. 

I added the salt and pepper to the sauce, stirred it, then lifted the spoon to my mouth for a taste. It was almost perfect. 

“Try this,” I said. “Tell me what you think.”

Bambi dipped her finger into the sauce and tasted it. “More salt,” she muttered. She licked away the sauce that had trailed down her finger. 

 Every muscle in my body drew taut. My eyes followed the slow sweep of her tongue over her finger. Her lips closed around it, and the soft pop as she drew it free sent a jolt of heat through me.

Fuck. I was in trouble. 

“Are you going to add the…” Bambi glanced up at me, nothing but pure innocence in her eyes. “…salt?”

“The salt. Yeah. Yes.” 

I tore my eyes away from her and turned the salt grinder twice over the sauce. I stirred it again, focusing on the slow, steady swirl of the spoon, the scrape of wood against the pot. The safe, ordinary rhythm of it. 

I had never had to focus this hard on stirring in my life. 

When the pasta was finally ready, Bambi pulled two bowls from the cabinet and set them on the counter. I divided the pasta into two bowls, poured the sauce over top, and we carried them back to the living room. 

We ate beside each other on the floor, the fire light casting a warm glow around us. 

“You didn’t burn the sauce,” she said after her second bite. “I’m impressed.”

“That was one time. And I was thirteen! I’m surprised you even remember that.” Under my breath, I added, “Almost as surprised that you didn’t burn the water.”

Bambi gasped and swatted me on the arm. “I heard that, jerk,” she said between a laugh. Then, softly, she said, “I remember a lot of things.” 

She looked down at her bowl, twirling her spaghetti around her fork almost absentmindedly, like she had found herself in the middle of one of those memories.

When she looked up at me again, there was a wistfulness in her eyes. 

“You did always make the best spaghetti… like my mom.” She blew out a breath. “And I’ll have you know, burning water takes special talent.”

“I’m sure,” I chuckled. “You were the only one who could manage such a thing.”

Bambi laughed, some of the lightness returning to her voice. 

Soon, the teasing faded, and we settled into a sort of familiarity that felt older than the cottage around us. 

It felt like we were kids again.

And fuck, I missed that. 

Chapter Nine →