The Bridge

(Paige’s POV)

Out here, chill doesn’t measure degrees. Instead, it moves like something alive. From the courtyard straight into hallways carved of rock, it creeps under clothes - past layers meant to block it out. Wool does little. Leather holds less. Inside the ribs, it lingers, refusing to leave. Around late morning, though sunlight tries slipping through tall, thin window slits, fog still puffs from each exhale in our borrowed room we now call work space.

Focused light catches Noah mid-thought, bent over the broad table pocked with old cuts. Maps stretch corner to corner, held at edges by a blade and chipped mug steaming weak tea. A deep line crosses his forehead while one hand moves slow along a path - likely the river Gareth spoke of.

“The bridge is here,” he says, not looking up. “It connects the high pasture to the main village. Without it, they have to take the flock five miles downstream to cross at the ford, which is treacherous after the snowmelt.” He finally lifts his gaze to me. “That’s why they lost sheep.”

My fingers close tight on the mug, pulling heat into my skin. What about the roof of the storage building?

A solution easier than most think. Wood plus manpower. Fixing the bridge comes first. Back goes against the seat, its protest a slow creak beneath him. Shadows fall across his face, yet something flickers there - that focused spark I know too well by now. That particular gleam arrives only when trouble shows up, but so does a way through. Our own eyes must measure what’s broken. Check the storeroom shelves for what's actually there. Fergus gives answers like fog - hard to grasp

It’s a test, that’s what he’s doing, I tell her low.

A whisper of a grin pulls at his mouth. Not kind. More like something watching prey shift in the brush. He tilts his head slightly. Leave him be

The door opens, and Alex enters, brushing snow from his shoulders. “Gareth is here with two of his men. They’re ready to ride to the bridge site.”

Faster than a blink, Noah is on his feet. A single word leaves his mouth - “Good.” His body swings my way. With no pause, he speaks again: “You’re coming.”

A beat passes. My chest tightens - half fear, half a spark I can’t name. Stepping beyond these shadowed rooms, moving forward - it feels like air after holding my breath. That word slips out before I think. Yes

He appraises me. “You’ll need warmer gloves. And tie your hair back. The wind on the ridge is unforgiving.”

Later, ten minutes pass before reaching the outer yard. Cold hits hard from the north, stinging skin with a clarity missing back in the city's fragrant haze. Standing there is Gareth, beside him two lads built wide like oaks, each wearing beards thick with red and eyes full of doubt. Horses they ride stand unpolished - shaggy coats, strong bones, made for miles not shows.

A sudden grip under my arms lifts me up, Noah’s palms pressing at my sides just long enough to settle me on the mare. That quiet touch burns faintly through coat and scarf both. His ride waits nearby - black, restless, muscles coiled like wire - and he swings into place without effort. Watching him sit tall there does something odd to my breathing. Out in this wide cold, framed by snow and sky, his face cuts clean shapes toward the light. Fresh air hits when he walks in - nothing like those polished dancers at the gala. Rough edges show through his grin. He does not try to impress. My chest tightens without warning.

Close beside me now, he whispers, so quiet it feels like only my ears catch the sound.

Footsteps break the stillness, our group moving through bursts of icy powder. Upward the trail climbs, tracing the ridge where stone meets sky. Suddenly space spreads wide - empty, quiet, sharp with cold light. Blue so deep it feels like falling, mountains capped in untouched white, pines standing close like they’re sharing secrets. Hooves crack the frost, metal bits chime, wind breathes low without pause.

Footsteps crunch behind me as Gareth guides the horse near Noah, one hand slicing the air while he talks. Bits of speech drift back - something about crumbling rock, maybe a rush of water after rain, metal anchors eaten by time. His voice rasps like stone on stone

Footsteps crunch on gravel, one after another, until the path opens up. There stands the bridge - or its bones. A single plank sways where others once connected.

A hollow frame of gray wood stands crooked. From the furious water down there, splintered boards stick out - like jagged remains after decay. On both banks, rock pillars split apart slowly. One side leans into silence. What once held firm now sags under weight it can’t name.

Footsteps crunch as Noah steps away from the horse, passing the reins to Alex without a word. Near the rim, he halts - drop forgotten - eyes locked on broken pieces below. Wind races across the cliff, tossing his black hair like loose threads. His cloak clings tight to broad shoulders, pulled by gusts that never ease. Time slows while he stays frozen, one solid shape against open air, just breathing in what lies shattered beneath.

Gareth comes to stand beside him, arms crossed. “Told you. Washed out three winters ago. The duke before the last one sent a man to look. He said it would cost more than the sheep were worth.”

Noah doesn’t turn. “How many families use that pasture?”

“Eight. Their entire livelihood.”

“Then the sheep are worth the bridge.” Noah’s voice is final. He turns, his eyes scanning the opposite bank, the remaining timber, the quality of the stone. “The supports can be repaired. We’ll need new beams for the span. Good, seasoned heartwood. Do you have it?”

Gareth blinks, thrown by the “we.” “There’s a stand of old fir a mile east. But felling, hauling, shaping… that’s weeks of work for skilled men. We’re farmers and herders.”

“You know the wood. You know the land.” Noah finally looks at him. “I have soldiers who can swing axes and follow orders. You have the knowledge. Between us, we have the men.” He gestures to the broken bridge. “This isn’t my bridge, Gareth. It’s yours. I’m just providing the extra hands to get it back.”

That tall man from the north watches Noah without saying a word. Only after a pause does he tilt his head down once - careful, like weighing something heavy. Not kindness shows on his face. Just notice. Recognition of balance. An agreement made eye to eye, neither above nor below. He speaks low: Yes. That thing we spoke of. Possible

Noah nods back. “Good. Send word to the families. We start tomorrow at first light.”

(Noah’s POV)

Back on the way, words fade. Not a sound comes from Paige next to me, yet her eyes move across the terrain, taking shape of every ridge. Cold bites. Edges fall sharply into space. Still, she does not pull away. Watching closely - like each rock, each shadow holds a message meant only for now.

Already my thoughts spin forward - figuring labor demands, equipment gaps, how food stocks stretch for more mouths. Yet under that steady rush of logistics, something else stirs. A softer pulse. Not routine. Unnamed.

That look in Gareth’s eye said he already knew what my answer would be. Not worth fixing, they’ll say - he probably thought - just another ruin too expensive to save. His voice carried the weight of someone used to being let down. This land gives nothing back, I bet he believed, except trouble. Then I remembered Paige speaking earlier. Given to us, she had told me, as if it were a gift handed down by mistake. Bound together whether we wanted to or not.

Right away, she got it. The heart of things clicked. It wasn’t about control. Together meant something more. Staying alive depended on that.

Up there on the horse, spine tall, wind nipping at her skin till it glows red. Loose strands break free from the plait, swirling every which way near her eyes. Odd fit, sure - still, she fits deeper than my bones ever settle. Like some slender green thing sprouting through stone high above the world.

A sudden wave of defense swells inside, making my hands press harder against the leather straps. Shielding her from the roughness feels necessary. Yet at the same time, seeing her overcome it pulls just as hard. This clash? It won’t settle.

Inside the keep, the stable’s sudden warmth hits hard. Dismounting, my fingers rest on her lower back, steering toward the entrance. Mine, that move - claiming. A tiny tremble runs through her frame under my palm. Warmth isn’t what made her shake.

Fergus stands there waiting, face giving nothing away. His voice breaks the silence first - was the location up to standard, he wants to know, addressing me by title. The question hangs without urgency

“It’s a mess,” I say bluntly, stripping off my gloves. “We start repairs tomorrow. I need an inventory of all tools - axes, saws, hammers, nails. And check the stores for any usable timber. Have the kitchen prepare to feed twenty extra men at noon for the next fortnight.”

He doesn’t blink. “Twenty men is a significant draw on our winter reserves.”

Hunting comes next, though the bridge goes up regardless. That tone - it cuts through noise. Not mine anymore. Wears the Duke’s weight instead.

Fergus lowers his gaze slowly. So be it, he says without raising his voice

Shoulders tighten when he walks away. This act takes too much out of me. Always measuring things. Never saying what it really means.

A hand brushed against my skin. That was Paige.

Fear lives in his eyes, she murmurs.

I look down at her. “Fergus? He’s as afraid as a granite cliff.”

“Not for himself. For them.” She nods towards the walls, meaning the people outside. “Every new ruler is a storm. They’ve learned to batten down and wait for it to pass. You’re not passing. You’re digging in. That’s more terrifying.”

Quietly, her eyes reach past what I show. Beneath stubborn looks, she finds trembling. Always, there’s more - and she catches it.

“Come on,” I murmur, my voice dropping back into the register that is only for her. “You’re frozen through. And I need to think without that old wolf’s eyes on me.”

(Paige’s POV)

Upstairs he goes, not toward the sunlit hall but into our private room. Warmth lingers there, thin yet real, left behind by a fire just kindled. Once the thick door shuts tight, faces soften - no need for pretense now.

Flickering light jumps across the walls when Noah tosses a fresh log into the fire. Off comes the thick cloak, then the coat, dropped without care. Heat licks at his skin as he stands there - just trousers, a damp linen shirt. Sweat-soaked cloth pulls tight over his shoulders, every ridge of muscle sharp under the glow. That image hits me like cold air straight down the spine.

Here he lies - solid, still, like a storm held in check. Light trembles across his skin, tracing edges of gold on quiet muscle. Not a sound comes out when I try to speak. Shadows shift where warmth once fell.

“It can be done,” he says, more to himself than to me. “The bridge. It’ll be hard work, but it’s straightforward. The real work is convincing them to trust us enough to stand in the freezing river and pass us beams.”

I move to stand beside him, holding my hands out to the blaze. “They will. Gareth will. You spoke to him like a man, not a title. He heard it.”

He glances at me, his light brown eyes reflecting the fire. “You gave me the words this morning. ‘Our fate is tied to yours.’ That’s the only language that matters here.”

“I just said what was true.”

“Which explains how it played out,” he says, shifting to face me completely. His gaze presses close, sharp and real. Not gentle. Truth finds its mark through you, Paige. That strength defines you

That soft way he whispers my name - it sits heavy, like something hidden and rare - sets my pulse stumbling off rhythm. Walls close in without warning, thick with leftover sparks from hours we’ve lived through, tied together by quiet goals, tangled up now in a closeness that scares me just how much I want it, built slow beneath the weight of days we’re stacking like stones.

Heat claws through my skin, yet the words slip out quiet - “It’s cold.”.

A faint grin appears, just at the corners. Not loud, but deep - like something seen only once in a lifetime. This changes everything about how he looks, shifts it entirely. Suddenly there is warmth where there was none. A look that says you both know something no one else does. Almost electric, held back but clear.

"Feels that way," he says, voice like distant thunder. Out comes his hand, aiming not at flames, yet straight toward me. A loose curl gets swept aside by gentle fingertips, guided back behind my ear. That rough thumb rests along my jaw, moving slow across the bone. Sparks race under skin where he touches. "Seems you’re burning up."

My voice is gone. Staring at him, though, feels like enough - the flicker of flames dancing across his gaze, that worn yet resolute expression carved into someone who tore through my careful order and somehow became everything.

Down goes his eyes, landing on my lips. A spark hums in the space that separates us.

“We have hours before dinner,” he murmurs, his head dipping closer. His breath is warm on my lips. “The keep can run itself for a little while.”

“I thought you had to think,” I breathe, swaying towards him.

Thoughts move through him, then his lips meet mine without another word.

Not like the quiet moment at dawn. This one bites. Takes space. Carries the weight of something decided hours ago under breathless skies. Warmth finds skin where gloves came off. A kind of surrender shaped by wind and waiting. Words stay gone but meaning piles up anyway. Each heartbeat adds a syllable we haven’t named yet.

Up slides my hands, grabbing hold of his shirt, sensing the warmth underneath. A low sound escapes him as our mouths stay locked, his arms wrapping tight, yanking me closer. My shape fits his - hard edges meeting gentle slopes. His need pushes into me; that pressure stirs something raw, deep down.

Backward I go, pulled by him, lips still locked, till the mattress presses against my thighs. Down I sink, he comes with me, his body settling like a warm promise. Then his mouth slips away, burning a path along my neck, while his fingers fumble with the buttons of my dress - slow, maddening, eager.

“Noah,” I say, breathless, lifting toward his touch.

Again, speak it,” he growls into my neck, words scraping like gravel.

“Noah.”

A noise escapes him - something fierce, almost triumphant - as the cloth slips off my shoulders and the chill rushes in. That thin barrier gone, his jacket lands somewhere behind us, forgotten. What's left is touch, warmth rising between bodies, the sharp scent of pine smoke tangled with frost... and the quiet weight of him closing the gap.

That moment, his touch - hands first, then lips - pulls me so close to breaking, my silence screams louder than any plea. Inside me at last, he fits like something long lost found again, familiar down to the bone. Not gentle, our movement matches the storm beyond the window, raw ground under untamed sky. From broken pieces, this heat between us shapes what now stands.

Later, wrapped deep in the heavy furs, our breathing finds its pace. He keeps me close, his touch soft in a way that grips something inside my chest. A quiet warmth spreads as his mouth skims the edge of my forehead, then lingers near the part in my hair.

“The bridge will get built,” he says into the quiet, his voice full of a quiet certainty. “This keep will become a home. This land will know us.”

Now I glance toward him. Eyes shut, dark lines of lashes resting on his cheeks. The light from flames makes him seem softer, somehow - less worn. This man who fights so hard, sleeping quiet now.

My fingers follow the edge of his face. It recognizes who I am, I say softly. Belongs to you, it understands

Awake now, his gaze locks onto mine. A rush of raw truth sits there, nothing held back. Not guarded, not thinking - only feeling, clear and sharp. The kind you can’t look away from.

Footsteps echo slow on stone. His words come broken, like glass under a boot heel. Forever binds us, he means it deep in the bones. Not walking away ever is what he swears next. Yours completely, without question - this part cannot bend

Wind screams past the old stone towers, wild and loud. Still, inside his arms - this quiet hold - we’ve made something that won’t bend or break.