Not yet. Not before she uncovered the deeper meaning hidden within the quiet gaze of a man who seemingly offered nothing more than refuge and genuine sincerity. The wind renewed its mournful howling that night, rattling the barn doors as though an unwelcome specter sought entry.
Snow lashed against the wooden walls with an insistent fury, as if winter itself was determined to reclaim the sanctuary of warmth Thomas had meticulously preserved within. Scarlett stirred uneasily in her sleep, huddled beneath layers of thick blankets in the improvised loft. Her face glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration, despite the ambient chill, and her breathing had grown shallow and erratic.
Thomas had been in the barn, conducting a final check on the horses before retiring, when the distinctive sound of coughing echoed through the stillness. It was sharp, dry, and persistent. He ascended the loft ladder in three swift, decisive movements.
— Hey, — he said, kneeling gently beside her. — Are you alright? — Scarlett jolted awake, her eyes glazed with the unmistakable haze of fever. — Just a cold, — she whispered hoarsely, but an undeniable tremor ran through her body beneath the covers.
Thomas offered no argument. He stood and descended the ladder. Minutes later, he reappeared, carrying a steaming mug and a neatly folded cloth.
— Drink this, — he instructed, carefully assisting her into a sitting position. — What is it? — she rasped. — Elderberry and honey.
It’s more potent than half the remedies you’d acquire from a pharmacy. — She took a hesitant sip. The comforting warmth almost immediately soothed her inflamed throat.
— Thank you, — she murmured, her voice barely audible. He nodded, then gently dabbed the cloth against her forehead. — Your fever isn’t severe yet, but you absolutely require rest. —
She blinked at him, surprised by his unexpected tenderness. — Do you routinely offer such care to complete strangers? — He shrugged nonchalantly. — Only the ones who appear likely to succumb to frostbite in my barn. —
A faint smile touched her lips. — You possess more kindness than you let on. — Thomas averted his gaze.
— Don’t read too much into it, — he cautioned, yet something about the delicate tremor in her voice, the way she cradled the mug with both hands as if seeking an anchor, compelled him to linger. — I used to fall ill quite frequently, — she stated abruptly.
He looked up. — Oh? — She nodded, her eyes now distant, unfocused. — When I was a child, in foster homes, in group shelters, some were acceptable, some were… decidedly not. —
Thomas remained silent, allowing her space to speak. — I distinctly recall one winter, — she continued, her voice now fragile. — I contracted strep throat, and not a single soul believed me.
They suspected I was feigning illness to avoid school. I lay confined in a storage closet for two days before a teacher finally discovered me. — His hands clenched involuntarily around the edge of the stool, his jaw tightening visibly.
— That’s… — — It’s alright, — she interjected swiftly, though her voice wavered perceptibly. — It’s simply… sometimes the body retains memories that the mind attempts to obliterate. — He found himself at a loss for words.
He was unaccustomed to such intimate disclosures, so candid, so raw. — I rarely confide that to anyone, — she added, casting a glance in his direction. He met her gaze directly.
— Why me? — She hesitated. — Because you didn’t demand it. — That response silenced him completely.
Outside, the wind intensified once more. Inside, the atmosphere was filled with a profound, unspoken quietude. He reached over and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, a gesture more gentle than he had intended.
— You truly ought to rest. — She nodded and lay back down, her breathing still somewhat erratic, but noticeably steadier now. Thomas remained seated beside her for a considerable period, listening to the rhythmic rise and fall of her breaths.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened. Perhaps it was the way the firelight danced softly across her face, softening the harsh contours of someone who had erected formidable walls, walls so high even she had forgotten their existence. Or perhaps it was the slight, unconscious curve of her lips as she slept.
The way she appeared. Utterly safe. He reached out, almost instinctively, and delicately brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek.
His hand froze suspended in mid-air. What precisely was he doing? This woman was a complete stranger, a powerful CEO, a veritable force of nature from a world he had long since renounced. And yet, his fingers lightly grazed her hair, just once, before he withdrew his hand, his heart pounding erratically.
He looked down at her and experienced a sensation he hadn’t known in years. Something utterly terrifying. Something inexplicably warm.
Something profoundly real. She stirred faintly but remained asleep. He rose quietly, tucked the blanket more snugly around her, and descended the ladder.
Back amidst the horses, Thomas stood in a profound silence for an extended period. For so long, he had allowed himself to feel nothing at all. Now, he was no longer certain if that profound stillness would ever truly return.
The blizzard outside had shown no signs of abating. Snow lashed relentlessly against the barn walls, each powerful gust of wind a shrill lament through the ancient rafters. The horses shifted uneasily in their stalls, their restless movements betraying their discomfort. In the loft, Thomas stirred from a fitful half-sleep as a harsh, rasping cough reverberated through the quiet. He ascended the ladder in mere seconds.
Scarlett sat upright, trembling violently beneath the thick quilt, one hand pressed firmly against her chest as another wrenching cough tore through her. Her face was flushed crimson, her eyes watery and unfocused. She appeared as though she were engaged in a desperate battle for each breath.
— Hey, — Thomas said softly, — you’re burning up. — — I’ll be fine, — she managed hoarsely, her voice parched and cracking. — No, you won’t. —
He completed the final step of the ladder, crouching beside her, a well-worn thermos wrapped in a folded cloth in his hand. — You don’t have to… — — Don’t speak, — he interrupted gently, placing the thermos into her hands. — Drink. —
The liquid was scalding hot and intensely herbal, not particularly palatable, but remarkably soothing. Scarlett sipped obediently, too exhausted to offer any resistance. — What is this? — she rasped.
— Pine needle tea, a touch of mint. Helps to reduce the fever. — She grimaced slightly. — Tastes like a forest. — Thomas offered a dry chuckle.
— That’s precisely because it is. — He saturated the cloth in cool water from a nearby basin and pressed it delicately to her forehead. She flinched initially, but his touch was careful, hesitant, almost reverent.