Page 46 of Fat Arranged Mate
Another hesitation, longer this time. "Mine, I suppose. I have an extra comforter."
We relocate without further discussion, the practicalities of survival temporarily overriding whatever tension has been building between us. Her room feels distinctly hers—books stacked on the nightstand, a small potted plant on the windowsill, the subtle scent of her shampoo lingering in the air. I've never been in here before. It feels like crossing a boundary I've been careful to respect.
Sera arranges the candles on her dresser, casting the room in warm, amber light that makes shadows dance across the walls. Outside, the storm continues its assault, rain and wind beating against the cottage with increasing fury.
"Temperature's already dropping," she notes, breath visible as a faint cloud.
I nod, setting the lantern on the floor between the bed and the wall. "Body heat is the most efficient solution. We should—"
"Share the bed," she finishes, voice carefully neutral. "I know."
The simple acknowledgment hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us is prepared to address. I take a breath, steeling myself against the complicated tangle of duty, desire, and restraint that defines our relationship.
"Just until the power returns," I say, as if this qualifier changes anything.
Sera arranges the blankets methodically—sheet, thin cotton blanket, her comforter, then the extra one she retrieved from the closet. She slips beneath them fully clothed, moving to the far edge of the mattress to leave maximum space between us.
I hesitate, then remove only my boots before joining her, maintaining a careful gap between our bodies. The bed is small—a full, not a queen—making this separation an active exercise rather than a passive state.
Silence stretches between us, punctuated by the storm's rhythmic violence. The candles throw strange, shifting patterns across the ceiling, hypnotic in their constant motion. Despite the layers of blankets, cold seeps through, settling into muscle and bone.
Sera shivers again, the motion transferring through the mattress.
"This isn't working," I say after several minutes. "You're still cold."
"I'm fine."
"Your teeth are chattering."
"They are not," she protests, the sentence undermined by the slight tremor in her voice.
I sigh, turning to face her profile in the dim light. "Sera. This isn't about... whatever this is. It's basic survival. Your core temperature is dropping."
She turns her head just enough to meet my gaze, expression guarded. "What do you suggest?"
"You know what I'm suggesting."
Another silence, tense with unspoken complications. Then she nods once, a small concession to necessity.
I shift closer, closing the artificial distance between us. My arm settles around her waist, drawing her against me with careful restraint. She's cold, colder than I expected, her body tense beneath my touch.
"Relax," I murmur, adjusting our position to maximize heat transfer. "I'm not going to—"
"I know," she interrupts, voice sharp. Then, softer: "I know."
Gradually, incrementally, the tension leaves her body. She melts against me by degrees, her back conforming to my chest, her head tucking naturally beneath my chin. Her hair smells of lavender and something herbal, familiar yet still foreign.
We lie like this, not speaking, as her shivering subsides. Minutes pass, marked only by the storm's continuing fury and the steady rhythm of our breathing.
"Were you always like this?" she asks suddenly, voice quiet beneath the rain's persistent drumming.
"Like what?"
"So..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Angry.”
The question catches me off guard, digging beneath my defenses to something in my gut. I consider deflecting, maintaining the boundary still technically between us. The boundary we both imagine we can keep up, despite knowing we can’t.
"No," I answer instead, surprising myself with the honesty. "Not always."
