Page 111 of Playing Her Game

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through something. “Done and done.”

“No wine or chocolates,” I joke.

“Added,” he says with a yawn, leaning back as I share the blanket with him.

I settle deeper into the blanket, watching the fire instead of him, though I’m acutely aware of how close he is. How easy it would be to turn my head and kiss him. How much I want to.

"This is nice," I say quietly.

His hand finds mine beneath the blanket. "Yeah. It is."

The conversation drifts into something quieter, the comfortable silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional shift of his weight beside me. I watch the flames curl around the logs, their edges glowing orange before collapsing into embers.

"You warm enough?" he asks after a while.

"Getting there."

His thumb moves absently over my knuckles. I glance at him and find his eyes half-closed, his head tipped back against the cushions. The tension I’ve seen in him before—on the ice, in interviews, even at the lake house when he’s thinking about something he won’t say aloud—has smoothed away. I love this Daniil.

And there it is…

It takes me a minute to realize he's fallen asleep.

His hand has gone slack around mine, his chest rising and falling in the easy rhythm of someone too tired to fight sleep. I shift slightly, testing whether the movement will wake him, but he doesn’t stir. His head tips toward me, his temple brushing my shoulder.

I should get up and bring the snacks in from outside so he has something to eat when he wakes. I should find a notepad and leave him a note saying I hope he gets some rest, then tell him to call me when he wants tips about the area—or a guide. But I don’t move.

The fire burns steadily, warming my face and hands. Outside, the mountains stand silent beneath the gray sky, snow clinging to the pines’ branches. The house feels removed from everything. No reporters, no families, no expectations. Just the two of us and the quiet.

I tell myself it’s just comfort. Physical closeness without complication. That’s what we agreed to, what we’ve been doing since Chicago. But I know something changed then, something undeniable. I’ve cried more than a few nights because I miss him in a way that’s foreign to me. And he crossed the Atlantic as soon as he had a stretch of time off just to see whether that something was still there.

It hasn’t faded one bit.

My eyes grow heavy. The fire blurs at the edges, and I let my head rest against his. Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just until the fire dies down.

Iwake later and realize the light outside has changed.

The fire has burned down to embers, and Rez is still asleep beside me, his breathing deep and even. I ease away from him, careful not to wake him, and push the blanket aside. My coat is dry now, warm from the fire. I pull it on and cross to the windows.

Snow covers everything, including a giant box and several bags. Annoyed by the delivery drivers’ apparent laziness, I drag them, then the giant TV, inside, relieved to see the box hasn’t soaked through.

I put away the groceries, all ten bags, pausing over the caramel salted ice cream. Could he be as far gone as I am?

I head back outside. The terrace is buried beneath at least half a meter of fresh powder, the railing barely visible above the drifts. Beyond it, the pines stand bent beneath the weight of the snow clinging to their branches. My car sits in the drive like a white lump, its shape barely recognizable. The access road that brought us here earlier has disappeared entirely, swallowed by the storm.

I grab my boots and slip them on before stepping outside, the cold hitting me immediately. The snow comes up past my ankles with my first step, and I have to wade through it to reach the car. I brush off the driver’s-side window and peer inside, but starting the engine won’t solve the problem. The road is gone.

I pull out my phone and check the local traffic reports. The mountain access road is closed. “Impassable conditions,” the alert reads. There’s no estimated reopening time.

I stare at the screen, then back at the buried drive.

We’re snowed in… again.

I pull up my mother's contact and press call before I can talk myself out of it.

She answers on the second ring. “Anna. When will you arrive?”

“I can’t. The road’s closed. I’m snowed in.”